


Downburst

by foxish_nonsense



Category: Overwatch (Video Game)
Genre: Cyberninja Hanzo Shimada, M/M, Mystery Man Jesse McCree, Slow Burn, Slow like whoa, smatterings of others, superhero au
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-03-09
Updated: 2019-11-03
Packaged: 2019-11-14 03:04:10
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 10
Words: 61,708
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18044255
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/foxish_nonsense/pseuds/foxish_nonsense
Summary: What should have been just another day in hunting down degenerate family members got flipped on its head the moment Hanzo arrived. He didn't know if he should be proud or dismayed that he drove the remaining members of the Shimada clan to call on Talon for help, but it was certainly making things harder. Now there were grand plots and diabolical egos to consider. Exhausting.Though not nearly as much as having to continually cross paths with a Mystery Man apparently chasing down the same leads.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Inspired by this drawing from @itssinenoon  
> https://twitter.com/itssinenoon/status/1074754085637758976

Stealth was literally Hanzo’s business. It did usually lead into murder, but none of that would be possible if not for decades of training in the art of not being seen. Not that it had done him much good that night. The irony of his situation brought his brother to mind.

 

Genji had always been the flashy one. As solid as he was in the combat aspect of his ninjutsu training, it was as though he made a point of sticking out in any room he’d be put in. It was just another shade in his impressive array of rebellions. He’d even be excited to hear news of bombastic, brightly colored superheroes – disregarding the fact that it probably had something to do with them thwarting some venture of his own family’s criminal empire. Though, on second thought, perhaps that was an added bonus.

 

And of course there was his wholehearted commitment to their father’s endless stories about _dragons_.

 

Hanzo pressed on down the cold, dark corridor. Platforms were intersected by tunnels lined with crates, though nothing was organized in a way that made sense with the space. The tunnels themselves were deep set in the ground and looked as though pieces of – something – had been stripped away. A storage area, he assumed, perhaps converted from a defunct subway line under the warehouse. Dust on the tarp-covered cargo at least meant this area wasn’t well traveled. It was all Hanzo really had going for him at the moment.

 

A muscle in his chest twitched and sent fresh shards of pain spiking through his body. Hanzo froze in place, forcing himself to breathe in slow and shallow. He couldn’t let any desperate gasps make anything worse. The wave passed and he was able to return to the hair-thin truce he’d made with his injuries and continue forward. His maddeningly slow pace was hardly the escape he’d planned for, but every nerve ending from his left pectoral down that side to his forearm was threatening to constrict in on itself.

 

He’d only meant to survey the situation. It had been difficult to track down these last vestiges of his former clan, but Hanzo had managed. He always managed. They might be an ancient line of ninja assassins – but he was their scion. Well, in another life. Now he was only focused on smashing the whole legacy and being done with it. The grunts and middle management he’d followed to the building above had seemed to be assessing the location’s value. It was altogether unusual, Gibraltar was a far distance to travel just to try to make use of an old abandoned warehouse. But he supposed anything had potential with enough ambition. But after so many of Hanzo’s successful disruptions on Shimada clan dealings, whoever was in charge of them now must have wanted a bit more insurance.

 

Widowmaker had been there. If nothing else it meant they were well and truly serious about warding Hanzo off. It was just unfortunate that he’d been foolish enough not to consider that they’d finally hire a counter sniper. Much less one of _her_ caliber. His thoughts drifted back to his brother again. All the stealth in the world wouldn’t help against an opponent who could see through walls. He might as well have been Genji in his bright colors and loud personality for all he must have lit up to that deadly woman.

 

Hanzo had been focused on tracking the Shimadas from the darkened upper walkways of the building when the sound of her rifle shot through. He’d been hit in the chest with such a force that his armor cracked and splintered. It kept him alive, but the shock of the impact speared through anyway and breathing was suddenly an immensely difficult task. His left arm instinctively raised, guarding himself with his bow, but it only presented another target. Hanzo caught a glimpse of Widowmaker across the rafters when he was shot again in the arm. He remembered being briefly annoyed that she was probably disabling him on purpose so he could be taken alive. The nerve. But then, of course, the pain had time to settle in and rocked his consciousness out of every thought outside of _get out now_.

 

It took every ounce of adrenaline Hanzo had to get out of the main space of the facility fast enough to avoid both a re engagement of Widowmaker and the Shimada grunts now crowding around his perch. Reaching any of the original exits Hanzo had scoped out wasn’t feasible, not with his arm useless and all his sightlines compromised. He took nearest open door and hoped he could at least lose them and figure everything else out after. At best there were mid-level bodyguards among the the Shimadas, but Widow was a true professional, if even half the stories about her were to be believed. Sleek and cold with unrivaled accuracy, a perfect killing machine even without the infrared sights. Hanzo had his sonic arrows and eye implants, but he couldn’t see through everything in every direction. The Shimadas wouldn’t find him, but she might.

 

Hanzo lumbered on through the musty, metal tunnel, decades old emergency lighting the only thing keeping him from tripping over the vaguely outlined boxes all around him. At least moving this slow meant he was being that much quieter. He nearly pulled his black fabric face mask down off his nose – just to make breathing a little easier – when he heard a door creaking roughly open. It echoed from down an auxiliary passage to the side, loud as a crack of thunder in the silence of the corridor. He glared hotly into the darkness and waited. Dread pooled in his gut as the sound of footsteps began moving toward him. His bow and arrows were slung uselessly across his back without a fully functional pair of arms to wield them. Hand to hand was of course out of the question – he’d just have to try to weather the pain of a more effective retreat.

 

Hanzo gingerly pressed his right hand over his arm to try to keep it somewhat steady and quickened his pace. The footsteps followed suit.

 

“Hey wait!” A deep voice called out behind him.

 

Hanzo didn’t. Instead, he cut across a line of crates, hoping to slow down his pursuer. His chest and shoulder screamed at the sudden change in direction, but stopping wasn’t an option. It was getting hard to think and Hanzo didn’t have as much energy to burn as he did earlier.

 

“Come on, I’m tryina help you!” the voice sounded exasperated.

 

He scanned for another door as he ran, trying to avoid the clutter. Conduit lines along the walls were starting to converge – surely there was a service area close by. Hanzo missed the cable that ran across the floor. His foot caught and he stumbled forward, throwing his body weight into a steel box through his damn left shoulder. Pain blossomed from the point of contact like frost through his veins. The cold bled into his stomach and a wave of nausea hit him. Hanzo’s consciousness must have wavered, because the next thing he knew, he was on the ground with his back against the crate. His thoughts sluggishly reassembled into a coherent mass and he cursed internally.

 

Hanzo slouched forward and cradled his arm. Cracked armor plating hung loose in pieces over the bullet impacts – the damage was much greater than it should have been for any normal fire. He wondered if Widowmaker used concussive rounds regularly or if his family had told her what kind of gear he wore. Hanzo darkly mused over whether or not it would have been better to have not been wearing it at all. At least the bullet might have gone straight through him and not saddled him with whatever internal trauma was causing him this much hassle. Though, in a few moments, perhaps it wouldn’t matter either way. The footsteps slowed to a stop in front of him. After a few mentally and physically exhausted moments, Hanzo glared up to see who’d managed to catch him in such a ridiculous state.

 

The first thing Hanzo noticed was the massive revolver strapped to the man’s hip, but it was thankfully still firmly holstered. At least there was that. Attached to the gun was a tall man in gloves and a black suit, but the sport jacket was traded out for some sort of capelet draped over his left shoulder. He’d gone through a lot of trouble to obscure his face, wearing not only an oversized blue scarf, but a black hat and matching domino mask of all things. The nausea came back as it clicked in Hanzo’s head. This man was one of those damn super heroes. Somehow in the right place at the right time to catch Hanzo escaping shots fired at an abandoned warehouse. Hanzo eyed the man harshly as he pulled something cylindrical from the back end of his belt.

 

“Easy now, I said I was here to help, remember?” The man pushed in the end of the small canister and a warm yellow light flooded out. Hanzo blinked away from it’s comparative brightness but started feeling its effects immediately. A biotic emitter. Slowly, the man set it on the ground just in front of Hanzo and the steady light smoothed over the pain along his side. There was a lot for the little emitter to take on, but even a small amount of comfort was a massive relief. But even as he was beginning to be healed, he eyed the hero suspiciously, starting a mental catalogue of possible motives he could have for helping him at all. The man just watched him passively, hip cocked and hands resting on his belt. Hanzo was almost insulted at his casual bearing, but to be fair, he was a long way yet from being threatening. Another beat passed and the man had seemingly decided that Hanzo had had enough time to quietly recover.

 

“Ya mind if I sit? Little sore from tryina catch up – could use a bit of that healin myself.” he said, casual as anything. Hanzo quirked a sharp eyebrow. He wanted to bite out a harsh refusal and demand to know who this man was and what he knew. But considering he put down the biotic field in the first place – it felt a bit too childish to do so. Hanzo elected not to respond, so the man shrugged and made his way carefully over to Hanzo’s right. He took a seat against the crate a respectful distance away and rested his elbow over a bent knee.

 

“If you’re feelin generous you can give me a name, but I don’t expect you will.” Hanzo narrowed his eyes at him. Maybe he’d find out what this man thought he knew after all. “In all fairness,” he continued, “I ain’t givin you mine either, but you can call me Mystery Man.” And then tipped his hat at Hanzo.

 

Hanzo was not certain he was sufficiently healed enough to survive the huff of laughter that deserved, so he suppressed the urge. _Mystery Man_ gave a comfortable pause before continuing, clearly not expecting much out of Hanzo, but giving him the space just in case.

 

“Seems like ya’ll were havin a bit of a disagreement up there – you wanna let me in on what it was about? Cause, to be honest, I woulda thought you came here along with those gentlemen – all things considered.” he nodded at Hanzo’s right shoulder.

 

Of course. Hanzo scowled behind his mask and his eyes darted briefly to the mark. The twin dragon ouroboros, ancient insignia of the Shimada clan, was branded into the skin there. Well, at least Hanzo knew this man was at least somewhat familiar with his family. He looked back at the hero and found brown eyes watching him closely. Even with most of his face covered, the glow of the emitter catching in his gaze made it hard to miss. Hanzo could feel his eyebrows creeping up in subtle surprise and he quickly reined in his expressions. Super heroes were all shock and awe, he did not expect to feel like he was being read by one.

 

“Hm, not speakin terms with em anymore? Probably for the best. Despite gettin shot I guess.” Mystery Man shrugged again, a smile in his voice. The scoff Hanzo made was a thing of pure annoyed reflex, but he was glad afterward that apparently he was healed enough to let his distaste be known. It earned him a low chuckle from Mystery Man.

 

“Alright, listen, I get it, you’ve had a hell of a night and the last thing you want is some stranger chattin you up.” Hanzo allowed his face to sink into a withering look. “I know, I know,” he added in response, moving his gloved hands expressively “Just hear me out. I was here lookin into some shifty doins and seems like you might have a lot more info than I got on the folks lookin to set somethin up here.”

 

Ah, so that was it. Mystery Man was looking for an informant. He was right, Hanzo was probably the best possible candidate at least where the Shimadas were concerned. But relinquishing his life’s only purpose to anyone – much less a ridiculously monikered _superhero_ – was absolutely out of the question. So he remained stone faced and silent. The hero got the message and sighed.

 

“Fine, fine, you ain’t in the mood, that’s alright.” he shifted and held his hands up. Hanzo was confused for a moment, but understood as Mystery Man reached carefully into his vest. A bit of rustling later – presumably into a hidden pocket – he produced a small card. “This here’s a special number to get a hold of me.” He set the card a safe distance from Hanzo. “It won’t do you no good to track it, but I wanna give you time to think over all this. If you decide it might be worth callin me up once you’ve had a chance to recover, well, don’t hesitate. I keep late hours.” The offer was punctuated with – a wink? Hanzo didn’t know why he was surprised. Mystery Man clapped his hand on his knee and rose to his feet.

 

“Well archer, it’s been nice catchin up.” He said, continually unphased by Hanzo’s unresponsiveness. “Hope to do it again sometime under brighter circumstances.” Then his mirth dipped low as he cast a glance around and then back to Hanzo’s place on the ground, “As far as I can tell, they cleared out pretty soon after you got spotted. And in case you were runnin blind, there is a door to an access ladder just down that way,” he gestured off toward the direction Hanzo had been heading toward before he collapsed. “Should be ok in here till that emitter runs out, but you might wanna get around behind somma these boxes just in case.”

 

Hanzo paused to assess his surroundings, then forced himself to nod in acknowledgement. Mystery Man was certainly a potential obstacle, but at least for now, he was acting as an asset. For now. The hero tipped his hat again and walked calmly off down the corridor. “Take it easy!” were is parting words as he disappeared around a cluster of crates.

 

Hanzo waited till the dusky silence had fully resettled into place before pulling a tarp down over himself. He huddled the emitter closer to ensure its light was hidden and gave a tentative flex of his arm. Pain still spilled out, but it was significantly more bearable. He decided he might as well wait till the emitter was spent, as Mystery Man suggested. Perhaps by then he could reliably draw his bow. A quick glance to the side revealed that the hero’s card had made it inside Hanzo’s dusty, makeshift tent. He rolled his eyes at it, willing its owner to feel it from wherever he’d gone – but a minute later his curiosity got the best of him. Hanzo quietly groaned to himself and reached over to pick it up. It was dark blue and smooth, with a series of numbers varnished onto one side, only able to be read clearly when Hanzo tilted it toward the light. Heroes. Always so over the top. Hanzo sighed and tucked it away into his pocket.

 

He would hunt down the remnants of the Shimada clan himself. After Genji – well, his mission was all he had left now and _heroes_ had no business getting in the way.

 

But having one in his contacts couldn’t hurt.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Welp, I haven't written anything in a while and this'll be baby's first fan fiction. So, uh, I'm tryin! Might have to bear with me a bit while I get Ao3 figured out. Thanks for reading though. ♥


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> World building is go. D:

**** Hanzo’s eyes popped open at the insistent beeping from his phone – then fell indignantly closed again. The alarm was quickly silenced with a lethargic swat of his hand and he rolled away from the sunlight seeping in from the cheap hotel blinds. Hanzo had eventually made it out of the tunnels beneath the warehouse, mercifully functional. For the most part. The biotic emitter saved him a much longer recovery time –  for which is was very thankful – but that didn’t mean he wasn’t sore. On top of his injuries, there was the adrenal fatigue and having to sneak his way back to his temporary hideout all while carefully checking for signs of being followed from every direction. Even now, as he lay on a bed comprised more of malevolent metal springs than actual mattress, Hanzo found he was not enthusiastic about moving. Well, he could at least be productive in his laziness. 

 

He grabbed his phone and started searching for points of interest in Gibraltar. There must have been something that would draw his family here. The city itself was massive with plenty of literal and metaphoric dark alleys to disappear into. It was as though the sprawling mass was an ever widening puddle, continually absorbing whatever smaller towns it came into contact with. There wasn’t as rich a history as the British territory from which it got its name, but each section managed to maintain its own flare. There were a pair of glaring highlights, however, but Hanzo would have thought those would be deterrents more than anything.

 

The first was the most obvious. Overwatch Headquarters was positioned just east of the city’s epicenter, it’s full campus a sizable redacted section of the map. They were an international peacekeeping organization, with compounds all over the world. The most basic distillation of their mission statement was to assist local law enforcement with high risk situations normal human beings weren’t necessarily qualified to handle. But mostly, in Hanzo’s opinion, it existed as a means to employ and regulate super powered individuals with delusions of grandeur. Hanzo had seen their promos and wasn’t especially impressed. The abilities of their members were nothing to scoff at, but their mission and methods, he felt, left much to be desired. Making a big show of stopping ‘bad guys’ was just excessive and every hero he’d ever come across was too self righteous to think otherwise. Well, with the very odd exception of one, he supposed.

 

The other not-quite-a-selling-point in Gibraltar was the brazen presence of Talon. An organization whose values were in every way a foil to Overwatch, of course shared communal space within the very same city. At least they didn’t have a tourist attraction for an HQ. Talon had managed to work quietly for quite a while, so there was no way to know which of the groups had taken up residence in Gibraltar first. Either way, the presence of one is what likely attracted the other. 

 

Hanzo knew of Talon’s work, but their interests rarely converged. Despite using the city as a hub, Talon had just as much widespread influence as Overwatch. Each faction had their own pet projects but the Shimadas were infrequently involved in any of them. If Hanzo found himself skirting the edges of some Talon operation, he was content to avoid it, lest he have to deal with some of their more notorious agents. There were a handful he knew of – and at least one now that he’d been shot by – but he didn’t know where they fit in the hierarchy. There wasn’t much about Talon Hanzo could specifically research without potentially drawing attention to himself, but a few creatively worded inquiries at least got him some updates. They were rumored to be involved in a number of recent criminal endeavors around town, but nothing that strung together well enough to make sense of any larger motives. Even then, it was all only rumors. The reported thefts, assaults, etc were almost always performed by a third party. Bystanders could be forgiven for thinking Talon didn’t exist at all if not for the occasional direct capture when supers got involved.

 

Hanzo breathed in deep and exhaled through his nostrils. On one end there was Overwatch, a gang of superheroes who would be eager to put a stop to whatever the Shimada’s latest project might be. On the other, there was Talon, a well funded, well organized private army of criminals who would be devastating competition for a weakened Shimada clan trying to start over somewhere new. His family had to know Talon had a heavy presence here, they hired Widowmaker for – 

 

Hanzo’s thoughts slammed into a wall and he stared, unseeingly at the yellowing wallpaper of his small room. He was an idiot. The clan wasn’t here to compete with Talon, they were here to collaborate. The weight of the realization coalesced into a drawn out groan. Everything about his mission was significantly more difficult now. Perhaps he’d taken his many successes for granted. Every slain elder, every disrupted shipment, all of it had slowly but surely hobbled the organization. Clearly Hanzo had been getting complacent to expect them all to just die off without one last, fitful gasp. It was a testament to his ability, he supposed, that he’d driven them into the arms of the faceless, opportunistic mass that was Talon.

 

One last beleaguered sigh into his too thin pillow, and Hanzo finally sat up to get out of bed. His legs had enough cybernetic implants in them that they weren’t the slightest bit pained from the night before – though the same could not be said for most of his his chest and shoulder. There was a dull and persistent ache along his left arm, but he was in more than sufficient condition to get work done. And there was certainly a lot of work to do. A quick run through of his morning routine (with some extra stretching for his arm) and Hanzo turned to the plywood desk, his battered armor resting atop it. The panels were in dire need of a proper repair job, but Hanzo didn’t have time to wait – he’d have to patch it up to the best of his ability. 

 

He tied up his black hair, pulled an overstuffed satchel from his duffel bag, and a threadbare hand towel from the bathroom. The towel went down next to the armor and tubes of epoxy and silica soon joined it. Hanzo tapped the desk absently, doing mental calculations – he should have enough resin to at least plug the holes. He took a quick glance at the time and got to work. He’d need to clean the areas around the two bullet holes before he could mix the filler to patch the armor. Once that was done, he’d still need to give it as long as he could to cure. Ideally, he would have been able to take care of this the night before so the armor would be ready for him now – but for once, for the sake of recovery, sleep had been the more pressing concern. At least he had until early evening.

 

After being spotted on the job, the Shimadas would lie low, making it pointless to go looking for them in old warehouses. Despite not being part of the yakuza for 10 years, Hanzo found they hadn’t really changed much. If given the chance, they’d head straight to the nearest source of halfway decent sake. All Hanzo would have to do is determine the right bar in the massive, multicultural behemoth that was Gibraltar.  _ Simple enough _ , he thought with a sigh. Once his ammeteur repairs were ready to set, Hanzo took out his phone and began mapping out possible locations. As he suspected, there were more than he wanted to have to try to stake out in one night. Too many opportunities for him to miss his targets – he had to narrow the list down and hope he wasn’t wrong. 

 

As the afternoon slowly bled away into evening, Hanzo ran his hand over his armor. The pale grey of his chest plate was even paler where he’d patched it – like a ragged scar. He hadn’t the time, nor the inclination to sand it down, so the rough texture only made it more apparent. The thinner plating down the left arm was a bit darker, but the bright orange ribbon of lacquered circuitry coiling down it disguised the damage. Hanzo glanced at the inked dragon writhing through a thunderstorm on his arm – a tattoo the lacquer was meant to echo. Let it never be said that the Shimadas didn’t have a flair for the dramatic. Hanzo couldn’t really criticise, he’d never painted over the patches of color in his armor, nor did he ever take up a gun if his Storm Bow was available. Must be something in the blood. His mind began to drift again to Genji in all his brightness, but he quickly shuffled that train of thought away and suited up.

 

Hanzo tested his movements and despite the limited cure time, the repairs seemed to hold. It’d have to be good enough, either way. The rest of the pieces went on, the arm guard on his right, the greaves, and the loose fitting jumpsuit to hide it all if need be. For now, the legs of the suit were cinched above the knees, and the torso rolled down and kept in place by probably too many straps. But Hanzo wasn’t about to have a loose sleeve getting in his way – not after last time. One last bit of armor along his jawline, black fabric mask up over half of his face, and he was ready to go bar hopping. Technically. Hanzo pulled his bow and quiver onto his back and checked one last time that his arm was moving well. It really was surprisingly fortunate that he’d run into that hero in the tunnels. He wasn’t sure he would have been able to go out again this soon without his help. Hanzo reached into his pocket and took out the man’s calling card. That was going to be another issue – the Shimadas working with Talon would attract the attention of Overwatch. Hanzo sighed again and put the card back. They really were trying to make things harder for him and for once they were doing a very good job of it. 

 

A little jostling and the window of the hotel room stuttered open. He leapt onto the wall of the neighboring building, catching the seams between his fingers, and climbed swifty to the top. His arm did burn at the effort, but it was manageable. Certainly not the worst Hanzo had endured to gather information. 

 

The light was dimming quickly between the distant towers of downtown Gibraltar, as Hanzo began sprinting across the rooftops. An actual Japanese bar might recognize yakuza when they saw them – his clan might have fallen far, but they weren’t that foolish. So Hanzo forgoed the obvious places for anywhere that boasted good booze and a big crowd. The city was diverse enough, a group of Japanese men out drinking together would blend in on a busy night somewhere popular. A quick ride latched to the ceiling of the South-bound metro led him to the service entrance of a mid-tier hot spot. The jumpsuit was unfurled to cover his armor but a quick search along the edges of the happy drunks didn’t reveal any of the faces he’d seen the night before. Hanzo huffed, but there wasn’t time to linger – the next most likely location wasn’t far.

 

Two bars later, Hanzo was getting anxious. Below his current perch behind a withering parapet, the city streets were still glowing and lively – but he didn’t have all night. He turned away from the lights and pressed his back against the outcropping. Perhaps there really were too many options for his idea to realistically work. It was odd for him to be overly optimistic in his planning. His right thumb and forefinger rose to idly fidget where his goatee would be were it not covered. It wouldn’t be impossible to find where the Shimadas were hiding out, regardless, but being able to track them there directly would save a lot of time and trouble. And there was no knowing how long they would even be in the city. Hanzo’s jaw clenched at the thought of dropping in on their safe house, only to find it had cleared out before his arrival. Having to start over all because of a stupid mistake on his part. A series of mistakes, he supposed. Maybe he was relying too much on the bad habits of low-level errand boys. They  _ were _ working with Talon now, apparently, it was possible someone in that camp had insisted they not go out at all. 

 

An idea came to him in a rush with the chilly spring wind. He snapped into a run toward the open railway propped up above the streets. The modern angles of the metro station weren’t far, and the bright light gliding smoothly toward it was a blessing, but Hanzo knew the schedule for this area. He dropped back a few steps and dug his heels into the gravel rooftop overlooking the train’s path. He was going to need to time his jump well – that train wasn’t stopping. Time stretched to irritatingly long seconds as he glared at the steadily growing headlight. His eyes flicked to the rail itself, gauging the distance. Ten meters out, the front car passed Hanzo’s mental guideline. He lunged forward, enhanced muscles sending gravel flying behind him. 

 

Hanzo leapt past the edge of the building and for a second there was nothing but the rail and the city street below him. The train surged into view, all speed and shining chrome in the fleeting light of the station. Magnetic pads in his gloves were activated and Hanzo braced himself for impact. His hands reliably latched onto the roof of the train, but the force of its motion yanked Hanzo’s body violently forward. The sharp pull on his head nearly slipped him from consciousness, but he fought through it to focus on mitigating the sudden, immense strain on his joints. Whatever tentative healing the biotic emitter had soothed into his shoulder shattered and screamed at Hanzo’s recklessness. His muscles were shaking as he pulled himself up toward his firmly planted hands. Folded as close as he could manage, Hanzo closed his eyes and steadied his breathing. He’d jumped onto faster trains than this and it had never been a good idea then, either – but he would manage. He always did. The insistent shards of pain driving through his chest and arm began to dull just slightly as the train slowed. Hanzo looked up at the backlit numbers on the side of the station – then let his head thunk back against the roof. Not his stop.

 

Luckily, he only needed to withstand one more before he could cautiously collect himself and slide off the side to the station platform. Thankfully there wasn’t much of a crowd to dodge and Hanzo was able to gingerly drop down behind a set of stairs to the surface street. He took the bow from his back and slowly tested its weight in his left hand. He could have ignored the pain earlier, but now it was demanding his attention in burning waves as he held out his weapon and drew back on the string. He tsked and quickly stowed the bow back in place. It was doable. He would just have to focus if he needed to shoot anything. A brief glance around to get his bearings, and Hanzo pressed on.

 

This time, to get to a higher vantage point, Hanzo cowed to his left side and opted to scale a fire escape rather than a wall. Trotting another block over rooftops, he came to a bright line cutting through the dark city night, saturated in lights and well dressed socialites.  _ They had better be here _ , he growled internally. If the Shimada grunts had Talon muscle on their side, it stood to reason they’d also have Talon money. At least enough to afford a night out in a higher grade establishment than they’d probably been in for quite some time. Hanzo had excluded this area from his list of potentials, he didn’t expect them to have the allowance to spend on anything here. The bustling avenue was flanked by towering office buildings and luxury apartments, the bases of which housed trendy restaurants, bars, and shops. A perfect sort of place to be in if you had the money to waste on overpriced everything. He scanned the crowds moving over the walkways. Hopefully he hadn’t re-aggravated his injuries for nothing. If he didn’t find them here, he would just have to call this whole night an absolute bust.

 

Being stationary at least gave his side some time to rest. It wasn’t a massive help, but it was something beneficial as he paced above the street like a prowling cat. A black car pulled up to a bar entrance, the reflection of the obnoxiously colored sign rippling across pitch tinted windows. The driver quickly hopped out and opened the door for his passengers. Hanzo watched intently as a laughing young woman was helped to her feet from inside. There was a pause, but the driver hadn’t left yet. A black head of hair emerged next, piercings in his ear and the faint suggestion of tattoos on his knuckles. The relief that washed over Hanzo as two more familiar faces stepped out almost alleviated the pain in his arm all on its own. He quickly committed the license plate of the vehicle to memory. It didn’t matter if the car belonged to them or if they had rented it, it was a lead to follow either way. The men looked tipsy already, likely this hadn’t been their first stop of the night. Hanzo was just grateful he had somehow mercifully gotten something out of this ridiculous, self-imposed farce. 

 

A feeling wriggling into the back of Hanzo’s mind had him suddenly very aware of all the very tall buildings around him with their many, many windows. Talon money and Talon muscle. If they were interested in keeping the Shimadas alive, Widowmaker might still be in their shadow. Hanzo carefully pulled out his bow and prepared a sonic arrow. If she were lurking around, he would be ready for her this time. His eyes fell back to the bar his prey had gone into. Multiple bars meant a long night for all of them – Hanzo had the car, he could follow up on that. Trying to stalk them till morning when there may or may not be an enemy sniper in a significantly better position than he was not a great idea. Especially when he was in no state to perform at his best. He kept his weapons in hand and trekked quietly to another fire escape. Getting down and out of sight was more important than speed now.

 

His feet hit the ground with barely a sound and Hanzo dashed across the mouth of the alley to cling to the dark corners. A clear path he’d spotted on his way in would get him back to the sleeping sections of the city – and from there he could make his way back to his temporary hideout. He cut through a loading area behind a closed shop, where the building blocked much of the light and noise in the street beyond it. Movement caught in the corner of his eye, and Hanzo snapped sharply over to face it, bow raised, arrow nocked, and ready to fire. He couldn’t immediately make out what he was aiming at, but the dark figure helpfully stepped forward into the single stripe of melancholy moonlight cast across the clearing.

 

“Fancy meetin you here.” The black suited hero stood before him with his hands raised. Hanzo was so thrown it took a moment for the burning protests of his arm to reach his brain.

 

“What are you doing here?” Hanzo demanded, trying to ignore his pains.

 

“Ah, he speaks!” Mystery Man chuckled, good humor apparently intact despite having an arrow trained on his head. “I’d call it a coincidence, us both bein here, but if you think about it I guess it ain’t that unlikely.”

 

Hanzo’s eyes narrowed. Not unlikely? His mind sped off in various directions looking for a meaning to that, and landed on the calling card in his pocket. He pulled his arrow back tighter, despite the strain. “You put a tracer in that card.” 

 

Mystery Man drew back, seemingly surprised, “What? No, no, there ain’t no tracer in that thing, but I’m happy to hear you kept it.” 

 

Hanzo scoffed – he wasn’t convinced. 

 

“Listen, you’re out lookin for the guys who’re gettin cozy with the guys I’m lookin for. That’s it.”  Mystery Man’s arms dipped and folded in slightly – he was trying not to talk with his hands. 

 

Hanzo still didn’t like the situation. It wasn’t an illogical explanation, but there wasn’t time to dig further. His arm’s willingness to cooperate was wearing thin and keeping his aim up was becoming a struggle. Mystery Man must have noticed because he was the most annoyingly observant hero Hanzo had ever encountered.

 

“You doin alright there?” he asked, nodding his head toward Hanzo’s left side. 

 

Hanzo decided he didn’t have the patience for further pleasantries and forced his arm steady. “My quarry is mine.” his voice came out deep and harsh, “If I see you trailing after it again, I’ll hunt you just the same.” 

 

Even in the low lighting, Hanzo could see Mystery Man’s eyebrow pitch upward. His arms drifted slowly down to his sides. There was no immediate intent in his actions, but Hanzo keenly remembered seeing the large revolver at his hip. The man was all calculated casualness, as though he was not, in fact, staring down an archer in perfect form to kill him. And he  _ was _ just standing there, but something about his demeanor put Hanzo on edge.

 

“I’m gonna go about my business, sunshine, and it may or may not cause me to cross paths with you again so long as our persons of interest are interested in each other. Now, you can be sore about it, but that don’t change what’s gonna happen. So you can shoot at me and get yourself a whole new kinda trouble – or you can give that busted arm of yours a rest and get on home. Cause pardon my presumptiveness, but I don’t suspect either of us are in a particularly sociable mood this evenin.”

 

It clicked what was so unnerving as the hero kept talking. For a man that had to actively resist expressive hand motions, both had remained eerily still. His right, Hanzo noticed, was hovering serenely over a faint glimmer of metal. Hairs stood up on the back of Hanzo’s neck as he realized Mystery Man was in just as much a position to fire his weapon as he was. Well. This night certainly had been a cavalcade of nearly fatal errors. He scowled hard enough that he was certain the hero saw every bit of his frustration, and relaxed the tension on his bowstring. The hero relaxed in turn, his thumbs hooking nonchalantly into his belt.

 

Hanzo knew immediately that he would have to be the one to turn his back first – he’d been the first to raise a threat after all. But childish resentment roiled low in his chest and Hanzo decided he wanted to have the last word – so to speak. The bow was nearly tossed onto his back and the arrow shoved unceremoniously into his quiver. He took the calling card from his pocket, gathered all his frustrated energy to his finger tips, and flung it at Mystery Man. The hero hadn’t moved at all during Hanzo’s entire indignant display and didn’t even look at the card as slid over the concrete. Hanzo turned on his heel and moved directly for the nearest wall. Arm be damned, he wanted Mystery Man out of his sight as soon as possible. Fortunately for Hanzo’s battered pride, the climb was easy enough to make while favoring his right side. 

 

The long journey back to his hotel did nothing to restore his mood. Only gave him time to lament is myriad of recent failures and pout over losing a stand off to a man wearing  _ spats _ . Arriving at his room window offered him no particular relief either. Mystery Man claimed there had been no tracer in the card, but there was no way for him to know now. If it had contained anything, he certainly didn’t want it on him any longer, so he might as well have tossed it back. Either way, Hanzo had been too cavelier in his comings and goings. He couldn’t rely on the remnants of the Shimada clan having anything less than what resources Talon could provide them. He had to consider the hotel compromised. Hanzo packed his belongings with practiced swiftness and left money for the nights he’d stayed on the desk. 

 

After that, he was back out the window he hadn’t bothered to close. It had been an achingly long night, but it wasn’t over yet.

  
  



	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry, this past month has been busy and I didn't have a ton of time to dedicate to this. But here's a pile of words, I hope you enjoy them. (•ᴗ•);; There's a lot more than previous chapters, I had a lot to set up.

Hanzo didn’t have any particular interest in venturing through the tunnels under the warehouse again, but given his circumstances, they were the best option for a new hideout. The whole area had clearly been forgotten by the world at large – barring those trying to escape through it. But after spotting Hanzo lurking in the rafters, the Shimadas were not likely to return to the building above. Though he almost wished they would if only for the sake of convenience. He had been quick to find a dark corner to set up in upon his arrival. It had been just as silent as the last time he wandered through and Hanzo trusted that any pin drop would be as good an alarm system as any for the night. Committing to that thought was enough for his paranoia to let him get some sleep.

 

Waking up on the cracked tile floor, head propped up on his duffel bag, was oddly nostalgic. When he first fled the Shimada clan, it was a long time before he was confident enough to have the audacity to stay in a room with an actual bed in it. His family had been much stronger then, with greater reach, and they made it very clear that Hanzo was expected to return or die at his earliest opportunity. Before any plans could be put into motion against _them_ , Hanzo had to first get their assassins off his trail – an endeavor that lead to many a restless night in whatever small, dark hovel he could find.

 

Hanzo sat upright and cracked his neck. His current hovel was at least more spacious. Tarps were pinned and tied around a cluster of crates, creating something of a field tent to cover whatever light he might need to use. Now that he had decided he was sufficiently hidden from anyone who might still somehow find their way into the tunnels – perhaps a too-clever superhero with a knack for finding himself in places he shouldn’t – getting a halfway decent signal for his phone was his primary concern. Hanzo sneered to himself as he exchanged all his battle gear for normal streetwear. The less energy he wasted stewing over his last encounter with _Mystery Man_ , the better. Thoughts of the man who, inadvertently as it may have been, essentially drove him down here were quickly shoved aside.

 

Hanzo’s movements were somewhat stilted as he crept as quietly as possible from his dusty cocoon among the cargo. His left side had not yet forgiven him for his late night train hopping and protested even at simple motions. It wasn’t the debilitating pain from before, but the muscle fatigue and overall soreness were making his arm nearly as useless. He buried his hand in the pocket of his jacket a little too forcefully and was rewarded with a sharp pang spiraling up his arm for his frustration. He hissed through his teeth and resolved to get this ridiculous matter settled – there was too much to do for him to be sitting around waiting to _heal._ He could at least grant his arm the one consolation that he didn’t expect to do anything too physically demanding for the day.

 

The cargo tent was purposefully made a short distance from the access door. It gave him less warning if someone came through, but Hanzo reasoned he made up for the slightly increased risk by reducing the amount of noise he himself would have to make to get in and out. He ran his hand over the bolts in the hinges and pressed them down into their proper places. A simple alarm of sorts: the door clanged and scrapped across the floor loud enough to alert anyone when the bolts weren’t properly set. Moreover, there was no reason for any potential enemies to realize the ‘trap’ before trying to push through. Even after Hanzo reset the door, it was far from silent, creaking and whining despite his best efforts to open it quietly.

 

Leaving the industrial park was a task in and of itself. Daylight and distance meant needing to carefully navigate the stark walls and silos to avoid any potential witnesses to his movement. It was another drawback to his new quarters, but he hardly had the time to map out the full expanse of the tunnels. He’d have to work with the handful of useable passages he’d already stumbled across. Once he made it past the last few fences and scattered foreman’s offices, Hanzo was able to more easily make his way toward his two main goals for the day. He needed to track down the license plate from the Shimada’s night out, to start with, but he also needed to make an appointment to get his armor properly repaired – especially if he were going to continue making foolish mistakes that got him spotted and shot. Both of these tasks required a better internet connection than he was getting from 50 meters underground in a half-forgotten warehouse district. Though even if he had a perfect connection, he wasn’t going to make inquiries from his new, admittedly not thoroughly scouted, base.

 

Hanzo took the train from the inside this time, and walked off at the first stop that looked slightly more upscale. A quick look at his GPS set his direction, and he moved causally among the masses of upper middle class suburbanites spending their Saturday afternoon out on the town. Being _in_ the crowd rather than above it was always an interesting experience. The sheer number of children (and a fair few adults) he saw plastered with various superhero logos was almost comical. He’d even passed several a-frame signs outside cafés with chubby little heroes doodled around specials for the day. Hanzo openly rolled his eyes. The Overwatch HQ _was_ in the city after all – it wasn’t that surprising if there were a particular affinity for superhero nonsense here. Perhaps licensing out their alter egos for merchandise helped with funding. Hanzo snorted at the idea and kept walking, setting those thoughts aside. He still resolved to dwell as little on heroes as was realistically possible.

 

So he let his mind drift – he still had a bit farther to go anyway. It was of mild interest that there were a fair few omnics around. Humanoid robots existing in everyday life wasn’t that rare, he’d even seen them in passing as he scouted around the city – but walking among them, like everything else, was different. They didn’t seem to garner any particular notice from the rest of the crowd. Humans greeted them, they greeted back. They walked and engaged with people like anyone else would. It would seem, from Hanzo’s admittedly limited perspective, Gibraltar counted omnics as any normal citizen. He’d certainly seen places significantly more hostile to the very concept of their existence. Whether or not sentience in and of itself counted as life was hardly a question Hanzo felt qualified to answer – but the dichotomy of where in the world omnics were considered acceptable was always a curious thing to him.

 

Another block down the road, Hanzo cut short his musings and slipped from the stream of weekenders. He crossed into a city garden cordoned off by whimsical, iron wrought railings. It was tucked between two apartment buildings, the muraled back of another blocking it from view of the next street over. Hanzo skirted the edge of the neatly ordered plant beds and around the corner of the sunny countryside painting on the wall. There was little more than a narrow walkway separating the apartment complexes from behind and in the early afternoon hour, it was completely shaded. Every bit of cover helped while he made his way along the path. At the edge of the apartments, he peered over to examine the security on the structure next door.

 

Hanzo needed a police station with just enough tech to be useful, but not enough to spot him – he could usually count on trendy, but not quite wealthy neighborhoods to strike the right balance. The front of this station was steel and glass, but thankfully the back and sides were mostly pale stone. There were cameras fixed to each wall but the one facing the apartments was specifically turned downward, focusing on only the alleyway between them. It seemed the civilians next door didn’t like the idea of their uniformed neighbors being able to peek through windows on a whim. It worked well enough for Hanzo – he mentally marked the camera’s sightlines and slid back behind the corner.

 

Judging the best route to climb up the wall was only made tricky by trying to spot out which angles he might be seen from. It would have been easier to do in the dark, but he had an appointment to make during actual business hours. Hanzo worked out his best available option and tentatively tested the grip strength on his left side. The muscles threatened to give out the moment weight was put on them and Hanzo bit back the growling frustration. Climbing essentially one handed was awkward and much slower than he wanted, but with the help of a fire escape, he made it to the top without completely embarrassing himself. In hindsight, making himself out to be more ammetur parkour than spritely ninja would probably work better for a cover story if he _had_ been spotted.

 

The apartment building stood just a bit taller than the police station, giving Hanzo a decent view of the roof. He stayed low anyway, until he could determine what security measures were waiting for him. The standard, brushed slate covering the expanse of it meant advanced, built in heat or pressure sensors were unlikely. He did spot one camera, but it was pointed at the access door – leaving the communication arrays on the opposite end of the building unguarded. Hanzo gave a minute sigh of relief and glanced down to check that he was still above the alley camera’s blindspot. Then a brief running leap to the station, and Hanzo sat himself in the wiry shadows of the various antennas. A quick test on his phone proved it hadn’t been a waste, and Hanzo’s mood was bolstered further. Reasonably funded police stations in large cities almost always had some sort of light scrambling set up on their transmissions. Law enforcement didn’t want suspects with a basic wireless systems course under their belt to be able to triangulate the locations of patrol cars or undercover officers. For his purposes, however, it was a decent enough shield against being easily found out for the business he needed to conduct.

 

Hanzo ended up having a very productive afternoon, sitting in his protective, omnidirectional signal bubble courtesy of Gibraltar’s finest. First and foremost, he’d needed to pin down his one major lead on the Shimada’s movements in the city. He confirmed that the car was part of a fleet owned by a chauffeur service – a very expensive one. People wealthy enough to hire drivers at that price usually had preferences. One long and insistent fake referral call later, Hanzo had enough of the employee schedule to know that the driver he was looking for had been booked by a premier client for four days – beginning the night before. Digging on the company website got him the rotation schedule for when cars were brought back for detailing, and a brief reading of regulations on chauffeur shift hours further cleaned up Hanzo’s overall itinerary. It was a significant weight off his shoulders and he felt physically lighter for it. It was a reasonably concrete timeline with plenty of breathing room to run through his checklist.

 

The next order of business was then to find someone to repair his armor. Searching around had gotten him a name, but it looked like it would be something of a gamble. The man was apparently highly adept and capable of adequate discretion but was selective in who he offered his skills to. His criteria was unknown, and rumor had it the man’s shop was secured with more precision firepower than could be even _remotely_ necessary. Naturally, it seemed, most people falling into lawfully grey areas tended to accommodate their needs elsewhere. Unfortunately, Hanzo wasn’t exactly spoiled for choice. He formulated his message to the man as concisely and respectfully as possible, then waited. His lip curved into a hardset frown after roughly 3 minutes passed and his consultation request had yet to receive a verdict. In hindsight, he didn’t know why he thought an underground armorer would be especially responsive.

 

Hanzo was in the middle of tracking down the nearest pharmacy when the notification appeared. It wasn’t a yes or no, but rather questions on the specifics of the damage and some of the materials. He prickled instantly. Signal masking or no, Hanzo did not want to give out written details of his gear to a stranger. He pushed back and insisted on just showing it to him in person to see if it were something the man could actually fix. The armorer was equally insistent that his time not be wasted. A few more messages back and forth, just on the edge of getting heated, and Hanzo finally compromised with the bare minimum of details the man would accept to give him a straight answer. Finally the appointment was set, and Hanzo could bring in his armor the following day. It was a bit tight, but it fit the timeline – he just had to hope the damage didn’t take too long to repair.

 

When Hanzo stood and stretched, the sun was dipping into early evening. He checked the time and made off the same way he came, jumping across the alleyway and back to the apartment building. A quick climb down and he was once again blending into the crowd. The final item on his list for the day was the most straight forward – he just had to get to the pharmacy before it closed. Giving his arm more or less the whole day off had done it some good, but he needed to be as close to 100% functionality as possible sooner rather than later. Having the muscles give out on him in the middle of a fight would be painfully inconvenient.

 

Hanzo stepped through the pleasantly chiming doors of the pharmacy and moved purposefully past the brightly colored drink ads, to the rows of medications in the back. Pills and salves would only treat the symptoms – Hanzo needed more biotics. Any products with that sort of technology were stacked along the wall in a glass case, at the farthest point from the exit to deter would be thieves. Hanzo stood in front of it, contemplating his options. Nothing sold there would equal whatever military or hospital grade equipment Mys- that _man_ had. There were small spray canisters, some infused balms – nothing terribly impressive. Not that the prices reflected their lesser quality.

 

Gutting a criminal organization all on one’s own was expensive – everything Hanzo had went into either hunting down his former clan or maintaining his gear and body to stay alive and strong enough to complete his work. There were a few things he would splurge on, but only if he could convince himself they benefited the mission in some way. He’d left the Shimada clan with as much money as he could siphon on short notice, but his funds weren’t infinite. Which brought him back to the second rate biotics in front of him with the bloated price tag. There was always the option to come back later and steal what he needed. Or perhaps loiter near a hospital to slip a proper emitter from an unattended ambulance. But almost as soon as these thoughts appeared, they withered under the daunting weight of reality. He was in a city with alternately either a massive amount of competition from local criminals, or any number of superheroes wandering around – and he was still injured. Hanzo huffed and his shoulders sank. He called over a clerk to remove what he needed from the case so he could bitterly pay too much for two small tubs of biotic balm.

 

Waiting to be rung out gave Hanzo the time to notice how, even here, he was surrounded by supers. Window decals, end caps, and LED bands peppered throughout the store had one hero or another grinning at him. The vast majority featured one in particular – a brown haired girl posing triumphantly next to a bright pink mech. The holo screen embedded into the cashier counter had her cheery face urging him to buy cola of all things. There were a number of heroes he’d learned to recognize by osmosis – one could hardly exist in this city without hearing about them. The girl was D.Va, and easily the most popular. Most likely because of her clearly young age and apparent willingness to lend her likeness to anything relating to junk food. Hanzo pinched the bridge of his nose, if only to have an excuse to shut his eyes to all of it. Unbelievable. When his biotics were bagged up, Hanzo had to restrain himself from darting out too fast.

 

Once outside, he walked briskly back toward the metro station. Just a few more days. If everything went as planned, Hanzo could pin down the yakuza grunts, get a lead on the new head of the clan, then move on. Ideally to someplace with significantly fewer flashy, overblown mascots. For now, getting back to his dark, secluded hideout became a surprisingly appealing thought. Even better, by the time he got back to the industrial park, the sun had dipped low enough to make slinking between the shadows easy work.

 

Slipping back into the eerie quiet of the tunnels, Hanzo had to admit that – despite his irritation at the oppressive presence of _superheroes_ haunting the day’s tasks – things had gone well. All that was left was to apply the balm to his arm and hope it was enough to bring him back to proper fighting form. Simple enough, but even the light crinkling of the pharmacy bag felt like it echoed. That was part of the point, he supposed, to have even minute sounds act as an early warning system for intruders. Even so, after spending most of the day out in a loud, vibrant city, Hanzo had not yet reacclimated. He thought the silence would be restorative, but for now it was only making him anxious. He found himself trying to listen over the sound of his own breathing as though he’d need to strain to hear footsteps through it.

 

Hanzo shook his head and sat in his dark little tent. His jacket and shirt were quickly removed, and he began kneading in the balm into his left side. He took healthy handfuls of pale yellow cream and massaged it into each muscle group over and over until the first tub was empty. At first, there was an odd tingling sensation rooting itself deeper and deeper into his skin and Hanzo couldn’t help but shudder. Thankfully, the uncomfortable feeling gradually ebbed into a soothing warmth close enough to the emitter that Hanzo was at least confident it was doing _something_. Now, he supposed, he could really only let his arm rest. He could stand to catch up on sleep anyway, and it wasn’t as though there was anything else to do for the moment. Hanzo reshuffled his bags and clothing, making the best version of a bed he could, and settled down for the night. As he stilled, the silent darkness weighed down around him, and Hanzo reminded himself that it was all a benefit for his security.

 

The night went by slowly, in fits and false alarms. Hanzo didn't have exhaustion to coax his mind into keeping quiet and allowing him more than a few hours of sleep this time. Instead of being reassuring, the quiet fed into his anxiety and had him snapping awake at even half dreamt sounds. Some were as simple as his own shifting on the floor, others were sinister heralds of well worn nightmares clawing at him from the darkness. Footsteps on a tatami floor – the shrill ringing of a blade being drawn. They echoed in his mind with piercing clarity and Hanzo threw himself upright from his cot for the hundredth time that night. He stared blankly at the dim little cell he'd made for himself, not recognizing for a moment where or when he currently was. A shuddering breath tumbled out of him as his mind caught up with reality.

 

It had been a while since he'd dreamed of Genji. His brother often haunted his waking thoughts, but lately, with a liberal enough application of alcohol, he usually managed to escape a nightmarish retelling of the night he died. Tonight it seemed he was spared the experience by his own paranoia waking him up. Even so, the tingling feeling, like creeping static, ghosted through his left arm. Hanzo shook it out and told himself it was just the biotics still working through his system. It was close enough to morning, he decided, there was no more need to attempt to sleep.

 

Hanzo stretched thoroughly and tentatively tested the strength of his arm. He went through a light workout, a few push ups, climbing up stacks of crates, and drawing his bowstring back as far as he could. The balm had done its job – the only remaining evidence of his injuries was a negligible soreness. He would still refrain from unnecessary physical theatrics if possible, but he was confident he could manage whatever obstacles he might encounter. Finally. He stowed away the other tub of balm in the belt of his usual gear. While he was at it, Hanzo emptied his duffel bag and packed up his armor. His appointment wasn’t until later, but given how the night had gone, he didn’t trust his mind not to revel too much in the quiet and boredom. Going out and familiarizing himself with the area around where he was supposed to meet his armorer was a good idea anyway. Hanzo slung the bag over his shoulder and set back out into the city.

 

The sun was only just peeking out over Gibraltar when Hanzo stepped off the train. He might have tried a different method of travel to avoid standing out as one of the few passengers on an early Sunday morning – but he still planned on resting his arm when possible. Though with dust clinging to his clothes and hair from a restless night on the floor, he supposed he could pass as homeless. He paused and laughed darkly to himself when it hit him that technically he was. He _did_ have a home, it was just that he could never return to it.

 

With that pleasant thought mocking him from the back of his mind, Hanzo began wandering. He had been studying the basic ins and outs of Gibraltar as a whole, but details were always important. He was pleased to find that this particular area was much lighter on the superhero paraphernalia. With significantly fewer commuters and trendy restaurants, he imagined there must have been less need to play up the eye catching gaudiness. The streets were not as well kept and the sidewalks were less clean, but the buildings alternated between fading paint and cracked brick, to whole streets lined with scaffolding for renovations. A city in transition, Hanzo mused. For the most part it just meant he needed to be more vigilant in his walk – between the construction, the hour, and the day, there was not much of a crowd to disappear into.

 

Hanzo made a wide and circuitous route around his meeting location. Considering the contentious tone of the repair man’s messages, he decided being seen too close to the site too early could potentially put the man off. And Hanzo frankly didn’t have time to deal with that. After the sun had climbed a bit higher and more than just a smattering of people began populating the area, Hanzo conceded that if he did need to make an escape later, he should probably take some time to sit. There was a Kofi Aromo imbedded in the lobby of an office building – Hanzo tried to make himself look as presentable as possible and went in, ordering their cheapest, high caffeine drink option. He planted himself at a table facing the front windows, with the side door exit conveniently at his right. The coffee itself was passable, but he mostly only needed the excuse to occupy his seat.

 

A ragged patch of dirt was across the glass walls of the lobby. Orange cones and construction equipment were lying idle in the middle of it – probably the beginnings of a new parking lot. This particular block must have had value to someone, several of the buildings were under renovation. Though currently, most of the foot traffic seemed to be flowing in specifically for the coffee shop, to Hanzo’s slight dismay. It at least wasn’t much of a crowd, and most moved on once they got their drinks. He watched them all partially out of paranoia, but also as just a way to pass the time. Uniformed staff from a nearby restaurant were quick to enter and slow to leave, a few overachieving office workers darted in and out, and a collection of people Hanzo deduced were only in the area because parking would be cheaper than a few blocks down the street. All in all, it did make him look less suspicious for loitering at the table with a long empty cup and his phone to look occupied.

 

Movement caught in the corner of his eye and Hanzo turned his head just slightly to see it better. Outside the windows, far to the left, a man in an oversized, dirty trench coat had settled down on a bus stop bench. He made a somewhat over exaggerated stretch, then repositioned into the perfect slouch of a weary vagabond. Hanzo made a sweeping glance across the windows, only resting on the man for a half second longer. The dirt on his coat was patchy and caught on the folds – not unlike how Hanzo himself looked that morning. But his pants were relatively clean, and the boots he wore were scuffed, but clearly made from high quality material. Hanzo’s eyes narrowed and he turned back to his empty coffee cup. He tapped his finger on the table in a moment’s contemplation, then scooped up the cup as he stood. It wasn’t entirely unlikely that the man on the bench was a normal, down on his luck civilian waiting for the bus – but it was red flag enough to move on.

 

Hanzo tempered his haste in making his way to the side door, but stopped completely before he even reached it. Another man was in the alley beyond the glass. He was in a suit, leaning with his back against the wall. His head was turned down to the phone in his hands, but his eyes kept glancing subtly across the street. Hanzo covered his sudden pause by turning to a recycling bin to dump his cup. Something was happening, every alarm in Hanzo’s head was insisting on it. He glanced around again but the only other doors led up into the offices above. If he were trying to avoid suspicion, going up the elevators in a jacket and cargo pants was a rouse he didn’t think he could quite pull off.

 

He moved to the front doors, stepped just off to the side and feigned checking something on his phone. He wanted to know what the man in the suit was looking at. He peered past his screen, across the street, and beyond the construction site. One of the buildings layered over with supports and safety rails for renovations seemed the most likely culprit. A sign tethered to one of the rails claimed they were open during construction, so presumably only the outer facade was being worked over. Two large windows at the front were still reasonably visible and Hanzo scanned for anything that would draw interest from two men trying to hide their intentions. The distance made it more difficult to spot, but with a bit of focus Hanzo saw the sunlight glinting off the displays in the windows. It was a jewelry store.

 

The nervous energy Hanzo had been building began to cautiously wane. A jewelry store surrounded by construction on a Sunday in an area without a massive amount of weekend foot traffic. Someone was either currently robbing it or was about to. Which meant that the men outside probably weren’t even aware of Hanzo’s existence outside of him being a causal coffee shop patron. More than likely, they were police awaiting orders to close in – it wouldn’t make sense for them to be so far from their quarry if they were involved in the robbery. Either way, the situation was rapidly evolving into something Hanzo need not have any part in – especially not when lying low and avoiding conflict. He pocketed his phone and walked out the lobby doors.

 

Once out, he veered to the left, opting to pass by the bus stop bench. The man there was out in the open and would have a harder time breaking cover to stop him. Hanzo kept a steady gait going down the sidewalk, his eyes resolutely avoiding catching the man in his glance as he passed. In one block, he would be past the construction site and able to duck behind the office tower with the restaurant in it. From there he could slip into the alleyways unseen and hide somewhere out of sight until his appointment. Precious few feet were all it would take for him to avoid being caught up in whatever was about to happen. So naturally, it immediately escalated out of his control.

 

The sharp and sudden sound of glass breaking snapped up Hanzo’s attention, as well as that of the men he’d seen lurking undercover. Several things happened near simultaneously after that. Hanzo saw the flailing form of someone who’d been thrown out the window of the jewelry store. The black clad figure had made it a good distance out, and was currently struggling to find his feet. Meanwhile, the man on the bench sprung up and moved directly toward Hanzo.

 

“Sir, please move back.” The fake vagabond quickly flashed a badge as he tried to guide Hanzo backward.

 

It took a certain measure of control not to react defensively to the officer’s abrupt approach, but Hanzo managed to maintain his innocent bystander facade. He was being nudged more or less in the direction he wanted to go in anyway. But as he turned to continue, a police van pulled through the street Hanzo had meant to disappear into. Officers in riot gear poured out and Hanzo’s jaw wrenched tight to bite back his irritation. He should never have gone to sit for coffee. He should have just planted himself on a rooftop and waited out the time there. How many times did he need to be punished for seeking out trivial comforts? He moved back to appease the insistent cop, but now he needed to come up with a new escape plan.

 

The people in both the lobby and the restaurant were starting to crowd around the windows. Hanzo turned to attempt to slink back the way he came but the vagabond cop continued urging him toward the haze of armored officers.

 

“I was hoping for a challenge!” a modulated voice rang clear across the whole scene.

 

Stepping out of the jewelry store, armored over in black and bright green, was one of the heroes Hanzo had come to recognize: Sentai. An insect-like helmet obscured his face with a black visor and white face shield, but because he was a superhero, there was also a flamboyant electric green “V” stuck in the middle of his forehead. If nothing else, he certainly sold the look of the dynamic tv heroes he and Genji would watch when they were children.

 

At Sentai’s appearance, the people in the buildings around them started bursting out with phones high for recording. Being anywhere near a super was the last thing Hanzo wanted right now, but at least this distracted the officer trying to herd him. He again began working his way back toward the other end of the street, away from the SWAT van. A good portion of the buildings on that side were under renovation as well and with the suited undercover cop now managing the civilians coming out of the woodwork, the way was clear.

 

He heard the robber shout something indiscernible back at Sentai, but the super merely responded with a boisterous “Try me!”

 

Hanzo rolled his eyes. This was ridiculous. It was a jewelry store robbery in broad daylight, why in the world did a superhero need to even be here? For that matter, what were the police doing with such a show of force? They couldn’t possibly be _this_ over dramatic about something so mundane, could they? Granted, he’d never spent much time in a city so full of hero nonsense, but all of this fuss was entirely excessive.

 

A blast like a deafening crack of thunder erupted from the jewelry store. An RPG burst out, heading straight for Sentai. There was a metallic thud of an impact, and the super was propelled forcibly forward in a plume of dust and smoke. Every muscle in Hanzo’s body tensed for action, an itch in his arm demanded his bow – but he didn’t have it. Only a knife in his belt so as not to come off as too aggressive to the armorer. Hanzo cared little for the petty theft itself, but this was something wholly different. A group robbing a simple shop with heavy weaponry and an apparent desire to get caught was looking for a fight. If they incapacitated a hero, they’d breach the crowd looking for the police next. Hanzo’s mind was racing to throw together a plan when he saw the split halves of the grenade hit the ground. His eyes flicked back to where Sentai had been thrown and his mouth fell open in shock.

 

The dust settled and the wakizashi that had been sheathed at Sentai’s lower back was now in his hand. He faced the open doorway of the store, white scarf billowing in the aftershock. Somehow he had turned and cut the RPG down the middle without Hanzo even seeing it.

 

“Impressive.” the word slipped out quietly, but it was no less true.

 

The crowd around him broke into cheers and Hanzo realized that it had grown in the few seconds he’d been stopped. With all the commotion, people must have been coming to spectate from the neighboring blocks. The police were forming a line between them and the action, just making sure everyone at least stayed back. The robber that had been tossed out the window yelled obscenities at the people inside who’d fired while he was still dangerously close by. Even so, he pulled a gun and took aim at Sentai’s now exposed back.

 

The wind kicked up around a corner near the edge of the construction site, and a mass of pink roared onto the fray. Hanzo recognized it as D.Va’s mech immediately. The robber fired more out of the shock of a 250cm fighting machine boosting toward him than out of malice toward the heroes. A geometric field of green lines projected out from the top of the laminated glass of the cockpit and enveloped the area in front of the shooter. The bullets were caught in it and quickly zapped away into nothing. Hanzo had heard of the ability of D.Va’s defense matrix to nullify projectiles, but it was fascinating to see in person. The crowd agreed and more of them cheered.

 

A golden beam of light snaked out from the same corner and tethered itself to Sentai. The other end of the beam was attached to a haloed staff held by a blonde woman dressed in pink and ribbons. Metal wings opened on her back and she flew gracefully to the other heroes. Hanzo believed her name was Mercy – a miraculous healer who apparently, like D.Va, didn’t feel the need to hide her face. The robber apparently no longer appreciated his odds, dropped his gun and bolted back toward the jewelry store. The heroes didn’t seem to mind and were content to stand ominously outside.

 

The bystanders were eating it up. Hanzo supposed he couldn’t blame them too much given that he himself had somehow been caught gawking at the drama playing out in front of him. He started reasoning that seeing this to its end would be good information to have on whether or not it was safe for him to travel back this way later. Then the rumbling sound of another large vehicle pulling up behind the crowd caught his attention. He expected to look back and see another batch of police showing up, but the reality was worse: it was a news van. If Hanzo wanted to see how this all ended, he wasn’t going to do it within easy sight of damned _news cameras_. He dipped into the still growing crowd, at last making it to the row of buildings he’d been aiming for. He stood half under the shade of the support scaffolding encasing the walkway. There was a sloppily made gap in the cross beams to allow access to an alley only two meters from him. It would be an easy out once this was all over.

 

“There’s still time for you to surrender.” Sentai’s cheery tone blatantly mocked the criminals still in the store.

 

Apparently it was enough to get them to come outside. A group of five men walked out, both through the door and the broken window. Three of them carried RPG launchers across their shoulders.

 

“Oh I just thought we’d put you guys through your paces.” The man at the center called back to the heroes.

 

“I think this has all been quite enough.” Mercy’s response was punctuated by the stamping of her staff into the ground.

 

“You’ve got no chance!” D.Va chimed in from her pilot seat.

 

“Yeah?” The leader stood nonchalantly for a few seconds in a stand-off with the three supers.

 

Then he whistled sharply and everyone with a grenade launcher flipped their weapons toward the crowd and fired in three near simultaneous bursts. In the span of a second, Hanzo was startled into stepping back, and the rest of the civilians were thrown into a full blown panic. They scattered in all directions, the police trying and failing to apply any order to it.

 

The heroes reacted by charging forward. D.Va’s matrix activated and obliterated one RPG without leaving so much as a puff of smoke behind. The second one clipped the mech’s shoulder, pitching its trajectory up, but it was still moving toward the office tower behind the crowd. The body of the heavy mech whipped around much faster than Hanzo would have expected, its boosters flaring green and rocketing D.Va after the rogue projectile. She made quick work of getting it back in range of her matrix and eliminating the danger before any damage could be done. Her momentum still had her making a wide turn just over head of the dispersing masses, which only caused further chaos.

 

Meanwhile, the third grenade had exploded into a chorus of cries and broken glass, but not from hitting any of its intended targets. Hanzo had almost missed it, but as D.Va was chasing after the other explosives, Sentai dealt with the last one. He leapt in front of it and raised his wakizashi again, striking it at such a perfect angle it redirected the course of the RPG entirely. He sent it careening backward and down into the ground just in front of the gang. The concussive force broke nearby windows and sent the men all flying up. Some hit the wall of the store, others were just dropped hard onto the ground. Sentai followed up with more of his increasingly baffling speed, dashing forward and disarming anyone still holding a weapon. Hanzo squinted to see Sentai work through the cloud of dust the explosion had kicked up. The leader had been flung the farthest and had a moment to shakily rise to his feet. He had managed to keep ahold of his grenade launcher, and made a grand attempt to use it as a club against the hero. Sentai dodged to the inside of the swing, bringing his fist up to strike the nerves in the man’s bicep. It was enough to get him to drop the weapon, but Sentai shifted to sweep his leg out from under him anyway.

 

It was – good form. Very good, actually. Hanzo knew that the superheroes of Overwatch had some remarkable skills, but this he was not expecting. Except for the unnatural speed, Sentai seemed to use the same style of martial art as Hanzo – or at least one very similar. He supposed it wasn’t _that_ unusual of a coincidence. Though Sentai’s voice was altered by the helmet, he did clearly have a Japanese accent – it wasn’t impossible for a warrior of that level to pick up the same fighting school.

 

Sirens blared from the opposite end of the block, and more police finally appeared. They rushed to the incapacitated criminals and got them all in handcuffs. Only once they were secure did Mercy’s wings flare up with rose colored feathers made of light. The beam that streamed from her staff latched onto one of the men then forked out, connecting to each of them in a cat’s cradle of healing. The situation was apparently wrapping up, but the crowd was still a haphazard mess – though a much less panicky one. As they all slowly realized the danger had passed, more cheers and yelling rippled over them. Mercy was busy magically mending the wounded and thus didn’t spare the fans a glance, while Sentai turned long enough to offer a quick salute. D.Va, having rejoined the others, waved with the canon arm of her mech, then even used the matrix projector to trace a pixelated green heart into the air. That got even more shouts of approval.

 

Hanzo huffed. He wanted to be more annoyed and the frivolity of it all, but he couldn’t help but be impressed. Though it was exactly as ostentatious of a show as he would have expected from supers. He looked around and took note of everywhere the police had entered in from. This event would likely get cleaned up before he needed to get back to the train, but it would be good to avoid anywhere he might get stopped by any sorts of barricades or check points. The crowd, meanwhile, couldn’t decide if they wanted to wander off back to their lives or mill around taking photos.

 

Hanzo cast a glance at the alley, getting ready to leave at long last, when he spotted him. The robber who’d been tossed out the window and ran off after shooting at the heroes. He was creeping along the fringes of all the action, trying to take advantage of all the distractions. There was a bag tucked under his arm with the jewelry store’s logo embroidered into it. Apparently he hadn’t been interested in joining in on the showdown and had stayed inside to properly rob the place. Hanzo laughed internally – this man had one brush with supers and decided he might as well get out with some jewels.

 

Hanzo watched him carefully through his periphery. He ducked behind an excavator and quickly tied up his scraggly hair, then, as if for a loss at what else to do to disguise himself, he took his shirt off, turned it inside out, then put it back on. Hanzo almost pitied him. The robber at least had the good sense to wait until the line of police was looking elsewhere to move. Hanzo might have left him to his own devices, not wanting to draw any attention either, but then he started approaching the gap to the alley Hanzo had pegged for his own escape. Hanzo’s gaze drifted down to the loose boards and poles creating the horizontal barrier on the short stretch between him and the entrance to the alley. He subtly widened his stance and casually rested his hand on the end of one of the poles. Feigning interest in the crowd, he waited for the thief to try to sneak through. Just as he was about to make it past the edge of the scaffolding, Hanzo shoved the pole over hard. He felt it drive into the man’s ribs, knocking him over with a surprised shout. That got him spotted and an officer was quick to bound over. Exposing the escape attempt meant sacrificing the alley, but in this instance, Hanzo was fine with the trade. He was hardly a paragon of justice, but that entire debacle was a disaster worthy of punishment. The man entered into a plot that only existed as a means to futilly challenge supers, collateral damage to life and property be damned. To call it dishonorable would be an understatement. Not to mention how terribly inconveniencing to Hanzo’s own schedule it had all been.

 

With the thief now being arrested, Hanzo smoothly turned and started walking away. As he looked up, he found that a bearded man in the crowd was watching him. More than that, he looked as though he’d been heading right for Hanzo’s location and stopped short. The expression on his face was some combination of surprise and confusion. Hanzo frowned and quickened his pace to walk past him.

 

“Hold on there.” The man doubled back as he walked by, but Hanzo didn’t stop. There was a good chance his little stunt with the pole had been seen and he had no desire to get any more eyes on him because of it. But the man was persistent, and caught up.

 

“Hey now, I just wanna ask you somethin.” The man raised his voice insistently and that got Hanzo to begrudgingly stop and glare at him. He was trying to leave without notice, getting chased after by a random brunette in the crowd wasn’t going to help. Hanzo would just have to end whatever this was quickly.

 

“What.” Hanzo’s tone was sharp, hoping to inspire a quick end to this conversation, but the man just let off a small huff of amusement, his face somewhat curious.

 

“Well hey there to you too.” His accent was annoyingly familiar, but Hanzo was focused on getting this over with. He folded his arms and waited for the man to continue. He seemed to take the hint and got on with it.

 

“There’s a lot of people who’d love to get their name out there, go viral and all that. Assistin heroes in the capture of dangerous criminals seems like the kinda thing anybody’d go in for.” The man shifted his weight to one leg and hooked his thumbs into his belt. Hanzo made note of the cybernetic prosthetic that took up his entire left forearm. “So I’m just wonderin what kinda man does a thing like that then tries to sneak off from it.”

 

Hanzo glowered, “That’s none of your business.” he said with finality, but the man didn’t seem discouraged in the slightest.

 

“Pardon my manners,” he said, pulling a lanyard with a card clipped to it from under the collar of his button up. Hanzo eyed it and a wave of cold dismay ran through him – it was a press pass. “The name’s Jesse McCree, and askin after other people’s business is my job.”

 

Hanzo’s eyes darted between McCree and the news van he saw pull up earlier, but the reporter held up his hand. “Don’t worry, you ain’t on camera or nothin,” he said, “Everyone’s attention is on those supers. I’m just a lone, curious soul wonderin why you don’t want to be counted among em.”

 

Hanzo’s face abruptly pinched into a grimace at that. If this man only knew how absurd a thought that was. Stopping one overzealous robber in accordance with his own personal code hardly made him a _hero_. He’d spent the past decade systematically murdering every family member and former associate he could find. And what he did to Genji – he felt his left arm tingle and he balled his fist.

 

“I am _nothing_ like them.” the words came out harsher than he’d really meant them to, but it was just as well. This man didn’t know what he was talking about and Hanzo was done indulging him.

 

He pushed past the reporter and resolutely marched out of the crowd, thankful at least that Jesse McCree didn’t call out after him.  



	4. Chapter 4

It took a good few laps in and around the general area before Hanzo’s temper finally cooled. He might not like the heroes or necessarily agree with them, but for all their obnoxious showboating, they at least had noble intentions. Hanzo was an assassin. To consider himself peer to any of them would be an insult to Genji’s memory. Eventually he was able to put the misguided words of the news man far enough into the back of his mind that he could recover something resembling a sociable mood. He didn’t need to be friendly, but it still wasn’t set in stone that the armorer would repair his gear. Hanzo had to at least not be too overtly irritable. 

 

After what had already been an absurdly long day, the time of his meeting finally approached. Hanzo made his way down a narrow side street, hazed over in cool blues as the towers above began to clip the early evening sun. A handful of small doors were embedded in the old brick buildings around him. He stopped at a red one with twin gears painted on the front of it and knocked. A panel flipped open making Hanzo draw in a sharp breath and grip the strap of his bag tightly. He instantly chided himself – the events of the day had apparently made him embarrassingly jumpy. A camera lens behind thick, scratchy glass now stared at him. Hanzo stared back in awkward silence. At a loss for what else he was meant to do, he greeted it.

 

“Hello?” 

 

The panel fell closed and didn’t resolve Hanzo’s confusion in the slightest. He was beginning to think he was being toyed with when he heard the heavy thunks of several locks disengaging. The door heaved open to a dimly lit foyer and Hanzo fumbled for a second on where to look. His eyes rested on the surprisingly small man he was presumably here to meet. His body was encased in thick red and bronze colored plating, one arm bared and tattooed, the other an entirely mechanical claw. A welder’s mask was flipped up over his head, revealing a sensor over one eye and a braided yellow beard billowing out over his chest. Really, aside from the fact that he didn’t even reach eye level with Hanzo’s collar, the man looked exactly like how he would have imagined a contentious old armorer.

 

“So yer Mr. Ito, am I right?” the older man huffed impatiently through a thick Swedish accent. Hanzo narrowed his eyes at him – a test?

 

“Hayashi is the name I gave you.” Hanzo said cooly. He understood the need for caution, but he didn’t have time for games. “And you are Lindholm.”

 

The man smirked and opened the door wider, “One of em, anyway.” he said, stepping aside and gesturing for Hanzo to enter. He did so, but stalled out as Lindholm closed the door behind him. Hanzo hadn’t noticed in the poor lighting, but once inside the foyer, he found himself faced with rows of gun barrels attentively following him. He looked down the hall, where the light from a nearby room was filtering in. That too, was coated in an array of turrets all following his every benign twitch. It seemed the rumors about this place had not been exaggerated. Lindholm patted one of the turrets and walked casually toward the lit doorway. 

 

“Get on with it then, we don’t have all night. Just don’t try anything funny and these babies will be sweet as kittens.”

 

Hanzo was still a moment longer, before finally following after his host. The subtle murmurs of the turrets as they followed him intently down the hall were more than a little unnerving. He rounded the corner and came to a large, open workshop. Warm light permeated the space, amplified by bright yellow holograms lazily twirling over various work tables. There were parts and cables on nearly every flat surface, barely pulled into somewhat organized chaos by what appeared to be a complicated series of labels. A metallic whirr had Hanzo turning his head sharply upwards – turrets were patrolling here, too. A narrow ledge near the ceiling had a number of them planted there, all studiously tracking Hanzo as he moved further in. He was watching the turrets as closely as they were watching him until a dissatisfied grumble pulled his attention back down. A fluffy white cat was also staring at him with the most unimpressed look Hanzo had ever seen on any living creature. And he had been on the receiving end of quite a few in his life. It laid in a perfect half circle atop the world’s most complex cat tree, tail tip bobbing up and down in perfect time. 

 

“Mitzi, be nice!” a cheery, feminine voice called out from behind a pile of massive armor pieces. The woman appeared shortly after, wiping her hands with a cloth dangling from her belt. The cat responded by curling into a ball on its side, apparently deciding to ignore them all. Hanzo cleared his throat, trying to bring himself back to why he was here in the first place. He turned back to the small man now tinkering away at something on a workbench

 

“I brought my damaged gear. I understand there would first be an examination to determine if it  _ could _ be repaired, but by your reputation, I am confident you will be able to bring it back to working order.” he removed the bag from his shoulder and tried to maintain a respectful tone. Lindholm snorted at him.

 

“Ha, of course, but I don’t do armor much these days.” he gestured back at the woman, “She’s the Lindholm yer after.”

 

Hanzo turned to see the woman with a wholly unsurprised smirk as a wave of embarrassment washed through him. 

 

“Brigitte Lindholm.” she said, holding out her hand, “That’s Torbjorn Lindholm, he owns the shop, but I’m the one in charge of armors these days.”

 

Hanzo awkwardly shook hands, “Hayashi Jin.You are the one I was speaking to online?” He knew he sounded just a little disbelieving, but it was difficult to reign in – her chipper demeanor hardly matched that of the hardliner he had been messaging.

 

“That’s right.” Brigitte smiled cooly, her high auburn ponytail bouncing along with the tilt of her head. She seemed young, but the rough calluses on her hand and toned muscles in her arms certainly spoke to her experience. Between all this and his surprise at Torbjorn’s size, it seemed there were a number of preconceptions Hanzo would need to work on tailoring. 

 

“And I meant what I said then, Mr. Hayashi,” she continued with an authoritative finger slicing into the air. “We can’t just let people walk in without having some idea what we’re dealing with. And I’m probably going to have to ask you more questions once I get a look at your gear. If I don’t get the answers I need, I can’t get the job done right, and I won’t send you out into battle wearing armor  _ I know _ is improperly repaired. It would be better to have you sitting out than getting yourself killed because what you thought would hold is falling apart. You understand?”

 

Ah – that sounded more like their online exchanges. Hanzo nodded and offered her his bag, still feeling the needling pangs of shame in his gut. “Of course. I apologize for my previous misunderstandings.” 

 

“Good.” her expression warmed a bit as took the duffel and placed it onto a reasonably clear work table. “Then let’s see what we’ve got here.” 

 

The patched remains of his armor were spread out and she gave it all a thorough once over. There were a few thoughtful hums as she turned over the pieces and unfurled a tool kit.

 

“Well you weren’t exaggerating in your messages – this has been well maintained.” she said, carefully prying open one of the reinforced panels. “It’s pretty old, but definitely top of the line in its day.”

 

“Just because it’s old doesn’t mean it’s not top of the line, ya know!” Torbjorn called out from behind. Brigitte merely waved him off without looking up from her work. 

 

“The materials are out of style, but still really nice quality. Just means they’re less expensive to get these days than the newer stuff. I’m sure I have plenty lying around.” She said, exchanging one small, delicate looking tool for another. Hanzo was relieved to hear it and held out hope that this wouldn’t take long.

 

“Hm.” Brigitte reached across the table and grabbed a small brick of a device, pockmarked with various switches and plugs. Hanzo’s eyes narrowed. It must have been a universal diagnostic tool of some sort – it had every type of connection on it he could name and then some. She pulled a spindly chord from the side and plugged it into the underlying sensory mesh of the plating. Tension crept quietly up his throat and Hanzo knew what she was going to ask before the scan was complete.

 

“This looks like it was made to sync with some cybernetics, but it’s been disabled. That would be harder to fix, it’s been pretty thoroughly shredded.”

 

Hanzo forced himself into a deep breath to keep from answering too defensively. “That was intentional. It does not require repair.” 

 

Brigitte’s brows bobbed up in surprise. “I see...” She trailed off and looked at him with uncertain eyes, clearly mulling over her next question. “Can I ask why? No need for details if it were for, you know, personal reasons, but if it was because of some – malfunctioning or discomfort, it might be a symptom of something that  _ does _ require repair.” 

 

Hanzo straightened his back and held his tone steady. “The sync functioned perfectly, I merely wished it have it permanently disabled.” Brigitte studied him a moment longer, nodded, then turned back to the armor.

 

Hanzo found himself staring absentmindedly at the set as a whole. It had been a gift from the Shimada Elders. A congratulations for his successful recovery from his several enhancement surgeries. The best armor money could buy, custom tailored for Hanzo, and already in perfect harmony with his implants before the anesthesia even wore off. Technically the link was meant for enhancing his automatic reflexes, safeguarding his spine more efficiently, and various other perks. But more importantly, connecting also gave the clan Elders easy access to all his vital information. A fact they were sure to remind Hanzo of at every opportunity. Even standing in the warm glow of the workshop, he could feel the chill of Hanamura castle on his skin. The taunting sneers of all those old snakes while he strained to keep his heart rate in line. He supposed, in a bit of dark irony, his bitterness had managed to outlive each and every one of them.

 

Back when he had finally abandoned the family, he needed whatever advantage he could get, and that armor would likely be his only option for quite some time. So he had carefully obliterated the Elders’ ability to spy on his literal inner workings before running off with it. Over time, he’d just become adept at maintaining it, and the materials themselves had proven quite reliable. He’d decided that obtaining a newer set of equal caliber would have been more trouble than it was worth. Not to mention there was a sort of poetic quality to ensuring that anyone in the Shimada clan would recognized who killed them. 

 

“Ok, this looks pretty doable.” Brigitte set aside her tools and snapped Hanzo out of his reverie. “You said there were some high powered rifle shots waiting under all that epoxy, right?” Hanzo nodded and she continued, “Normally I don’t do such quick turnarounds by request, but this really shouldn’t take too long. And at least you were good enough to actually make an appointment.” She said with a laugh and a rolling of her eyes. 

 

“You have my thanks. When should I return to retrieve it?” he asked with a slight bow. 

 

“This will only be a couple hours, maybe less” she patted the table, “You can come back in a few or just hang out here. There’s ah, plenty of security,”  Her hand gestured at the array of turrets Hanzo had managed to temporarily forget about. “and a kitchen you can camp out in. Up to you.”

 

Loitering around during repairs wasn’t a bad suggestion. He had, after all, purposefully arrived with the bare minimum of weapons – and the night would be setting in soon. 

 

“If it is alright, I think I would prefer to wait here for the work to be completed.” he said with as much deference as he could muster. Brigitte just smiled pleasantly and pushed off from the table.

 

“Of course – follow me.” she walked with him past the work stations and heavy machinery toward a multi-paneled room partition near the corner of the shop. Now that Hanzo was once again in motion, the background noise of the turrets rotating to keep a bead on him was hard to miss. “If you’re nice, Bastion will make some tea for you.”

 

“Bastion?” he parroted back. Brigitte placed her hand on the edge of the stretched canvas barrier, blocking him from moving further. He peered suspiciously at her. 

 

“Bastion.” She faced him, shoulders straight, feet planted – the picture of resolve. “Be nice. I mean it.” She gave him one last emphasizing stare, before moving away, past the partition. Hanzo paused, unsure, but sorely tempted to demand clarification before going in. It would have been rude, of course, but he was still tempted. Instead, he carefully moved in after her.

 

It was a small kitchen area with an island surrounded by stools in the center. The far wall was covered in hanging trellises and the light scent of herbs swirled gently through the air. Then he saw it. Hanzo’s muscles were immediately strung taut and ready to move. A relic from the Omnic Crisis, a mass produced death machine, the proverbial face of rogue AI hellbent on eradicating mankind – was tending to the cheery green sprouts along the wall. It turned around, looking at the two of them with its bright blue, rectangular eye – and waved. Its clunky movements matched its boxy form – a model design that had been forbidden since the end of the war some decades prior. But with a submachine gun for an arm and a massive gatling barrel folded up on its back, the original purpose was still clear. Hanzo stood there fighting various impulses, despite Brigitte’s warning. A Bastion unit still active and casually walking around was so bizarre of a concept, he had not even begun to consider that  _ this _ is what she meant. Hanzo forced himself to remain stock still. Until he could stem the tide of adrenaline, he knew whatever knee jerk reaction he let slip out would be a poor one. The Bastion unit’s head tilted and it bleated out a handful of melodic tunes. 

 

“Bastion, this is Mr. Hayashi. He’s here to get some repairs done. I told him he could just hang out here for a bit while I work.” Brigitte was speaking to the Bastion, but watching Hanzo. Finally, the ricocheting thoughts in his head began to slow into something comprehensible. The Lindholms were clearly very good mechanical engineers and certainly didn’t make light of security. If a Bastion unit were here –  _ existing _ – surely whatever threat it posed had been long since neutralized.    
  


“Y-yes, I am – I will only be here a short time.” he managed. It sounded forced, but in his defense, he was still convincing his subconscious that he didn’t need to immediately find cover. “I apologize for any disturbances.” The Bastion – well, apparently  _ just _ Bastion – bobbed and beeped, seemingly pleased. 

 

“Great! They’re not much for conversation, but they’ll help you out if you need anything.” Brigitte gave Hanzo a couple hearty pats on the back and he jumped slightly at the contact. She then left him to stand awkwardly in the middle of the kitchen, alone with th-  _ Bastion _ . 

 

Bastion, however, had no problem at all returning to-  _ their _ work with the plants. After another minute of standing there, Hanzo finally dislodged himself from the floor and moved to a stool on the end of the island. A faint flapping sound drew his attention to the top of the herb trellises. A small yellow bird watched him curiously. It chirped, then dropped down to get a closer look from the shoulder of Bastion like it was the most natural thing in the world. Hanzo openly stared. There really were no end to the perception bending things to encounter here. Perhaps he’d just spent too long being disconnected from the world at large. Though he supposed he’d never been terribly connected at any point in his life. He pried his eyes off of the odd pair and took out his phone. He needed something else to focus on – ideally something resembling productivity. 

 

He scanned around for any news on the Shimada clan. Not just who he was tracking here, but anywhere else there might be pockets of them hiding out. Clicking through rabbit hole after rabbit hole eventually had him stumbling into news from Hanamura. The headline photo was a majestic view of the gardens within the walls of Shimada Castle. A wave of nostalgia rose in his chest and the words of the article started blending together. He gave up on learning anything new and submitted to flipping through the slideshow of photos. The castle had been relinquished to the government some time ago and opened up as a cultural landmark. The grounds looked meticulously cared for, and the blooming sakura crowded into every image. His heart ached to walk along the garden paths, with nothing but his thoughts and the wind to keep him company. To take a moment to relive any day in his life when he had a purpose beyond ‘murder literally everyone you’ve ever known.’ Hanzo scoffed to himself. He couldn’t help but be homesick, as pointless as it was. He no longer had any claim to that castle and, if he were honest with himself, very few genuinely good memories. Certainly none that he couldn’t turn dark through the power of hindsight. He was just being sentimental for his childhood years, when he was reasonably safe, reasonably comfortable, and had not yet made the biggest mistake of his life. 

 

A mug appearing in front of him nearly made Hanzo jump out of his skin. He only just avoided reflexively pulling his weapon – reminding himself at the last second of the sheer volume of bullets he’d be seeing if he became a threat. Bastion sang out a low, swooping tone from the other side of the island. Hanzo cleared his throat and put his hands firmly on the counter. 

 

“I apologize – I was distracted. Did you – ” he started, then Bastion nudged the mug closer, “...Ah.” The heavy clanking of Bastion’s movements had already become background noise – he completely missed them proving Brigitte right about the tea. He pulled the warm mug closer between his hands with carefully calculated movements. “Thank you.” he offered lamely. Bastion responded with some high pitched humming and tromped out into the workshop – the little yellow bird fluttering after. 

 

Hanzo was left alone at the island with the herby scent of chamomile blossoming up from a cat-shaped novelty mug. He stared blankly at it for a few minutes, just listening to the muted sounds of Bastion milling around and the Lindholms hammering away at their respective projects. The photo of the sakura trees slowly rose to the surface of his mind. He closed his eyes and tried to clear his thoughts, but it was no use. The borders of the photo bled open into the full panorama of the courtyard. Ghostly recollections of his former life filled in the blanks with every secluded pathway, the exact texture of the walls, and even the feel of flower petals tenderly drifting across his skin. His shoulders sank and he opened his eyes. Ten years since he’d walked those grounds and in seconds it was like some part of him was still there. Though, to be fair, he’d buried everything about himself that ever mattered under those trees. Now all that was left was to clean up everything else.

 

Hanzo gingerly sipped the tea. It was a mistake to let his spiral carry him this far – there was no escaping it now. He added it to the never ending tally of errors, and let himself succumb to whatever path his mind wandered down.

  
  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Well this was supposed to also be the flash back chapter, but both ended up going way longer than I expected them to. Then I, like a crazy person, decided to do two chapters at once so still got both parts out. SO double update is go, hopefully people are still on board with this ride. lD;


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Did someone order a massive flash back? Cause I have this massive flash back...

Sojiro Shimada was never quite the same after his wife died. Killed in a car accident – and that had been the worst part. There had been no rival yakuza plot, no overzealous hero, not even a rogue illness he could have scoured the earth or paid any price to cure. He’d had the wreck painstakingly investigated, a process that ended with a body count of its own – and there was still nothing. No problem to solve and no enemy to fight. Living a life surrounded by assassins, arms dealers, and drug runners, Shimada Rin’s end had come from the most mundane possible source: just deeply unfortunate happenstance.

 

Hanzo had been 8 at the time. Most of the wake was a blur – he spent the majority of it sitting quietly and resolutely staring at his hands. If he looked at anything else, his eyes immediately grew hot with tears he could not afford to let loose. He’d been gravely instructed by his aunt on how to behave, when to light the incense, and above all else, he could not make himself appear unseemly. Genji was only 5 and sniveled for the entire duration – but he was the second son, and allowed such trivialities. Hanzo was the heir, and needed to be presentable enough for the both of them. After the ceremony was over, he remembered his father saying his name, but he wouldn’t look at him. He’d heard the strain in Sojiro’s voice and was scared of what face he might see if he looked. If his stern father looked how he sounded, it might be too much and Hanzo would end up crying anyway, disappointing everyone. So he squeaked out a response, but continued staring at his hands. It wasn’t what his father was hoping for, apparently, because he turned then to Genji, who was not shy about letting his emotions pour out. They left the room that day with Sojiro carrying a bawling Genji, and Hanzo being ushered from behind by this proud aunt. 

 

In the years that followed, Hanzo was unwilling to be dramatic enough to claim that moment as the thematic overture to the rest of his life – but it certainly felt like it. Genji was father’s favorite, while Hanzo was busy keeping up with the clan Elders’ expectations. Though, while he was still young it wasn’t nearly as unbearable as it eventually became. 

 

After Rin’s death, Sojiro acquired – as the Elders had put it – a sudden acute interest in the family history. His wife dying so suddenly, without any cause he could chase after, apparently drove him to some interesting corners in the Shimada archives. Hanzo remembered a few half registered conversations with various concerned relatives. Sojiro would spend an inordinate amount of the night in his office studying whatever scraps of information still existed on centuries old tales of their ancestors’ exploits. The concerns were always sharply dismissed. He was the leader of their illustrious clan and not one of them had any say on how he spent his time in his own home. As much as Hanzo liked the idea of one day being able to order people around like his father, even he could tell something was off. It had become a regular thing to look up at family meals and see him staring, hollow faced, into nothing. Hanzo would want to ask if he was alright, but never did, remembering how it went for the adults asking the same thing. Genji never hesitated, and just flopped over in a full body hug, always snapping Sojiro out of it and bringing back a warm smile. For Genji, his little Sparrow. Then before Hanzo could get too jealous or Genji too restless, Sojiro would regale them with the fruits of his research. He might lock himself away in the night, but he’d always come out with a new, fantastical story to tell his sons. 

 

The remaining childhood of the Shimada brothers had been filled with dragons. Their family iconography had always featured them in various forms, but Sojiro brought them legends. Tales of dueling dragon brothers, reconciling in human form, and founding their clan. How the legacy of these celestial titans lived in the blood of every Shimada. Many stories involved ancestors wielding ancient and mystical powers to cut through whole armies. The spirits of huge storm dragons coming to aid noble Shimada descendants. Genji and Hanzo were enthralled, of course, and routinely asked their father if any of it was true. Every time, he’d emphatically insist that yes, absolutely. But the guardians of their family would only come to those they deemed worthy, so Sojiro would do his best to make sure his boys qualified. Hanzo had asked if being a good heir would be enough for him to be like his ancestors. Sojiro told him it wasn’t enough to be good, he would have to be the best. 

 

At first, the thought of trying to match any of the heroes in the stories seemed like an oppressively daunting task. The family tutors were never shy about telling him by how narrow of a margin he was meeting their standards – how could he ever manage to impress a  _ dragon _ ? But Genji took it as a challenge. He made Hanzo promise that they would both have dragons some day. Genji, of course, would definitely have one, but Hanzo needed to get one too so they could play together. Hanzo wanted to say that Genji was just being immature and not realizing how hard it would be – but he had to admit, the enthusiasm was contagious. There weren’t many things his little brother would encourage him to do that  _ wouldn’t _ get him in trouble, but beating the odds and becoming family legends? Hanzo was willing to let himself get nudged into that one. 

 

Eventually, the rest of the clan seemed to give up on trying to get Sojiro out of the distant past. If teaching his sons the Shimada family history and expectations in the form of bedtime stories was how he coped with loss, they decided it could be worse. But the stories didn’t stop as the boys grew older. After a while, Hanzo suspected they were most likely over exaggerated accounts of Shimadas manifesting powers that the early archivists had no means of contextualizing other than “well surely it must be spirit dragons.” He kept his conclusion to himself, however, since Genji still completely bought into the idea. His brother was younger, he reasoned, it was fine for him to believe in fairytales a little longer. And with more and more of his regular education being supplemented by lessons in how to run the family empire, the number of topics they had to talk about were dwindling. Genji never cared much about the inner workings of their clan and he never had to. Sojiro spoiled and doted on him endlessly. Genji was allowed to do whatever he wanted and any time the Elders tried to intervene, Sojiro just redirected them to Hanzo. The elder of the two, he’d insist, would be the incontrovertible mind of the Shimadas, and Genji would be its heart. 

 

That wasn’t to say there was no affection spared for Hanzo, just an irritating double standard. It led to no small amount of friction between the brothers, but even then, they still shared meals just the three of them. Sojiro would occasionally tell them stories, but years had passed, and Hanzo had already memorized them. Now more often the narration evolved into conversations over means and methods. Did Sojiro ever figure out how their ancestor summoned a storm, did the dragons ever show a preference of one thing or another, and so on. Hanzo just humored his father, who he assumed must have been nostalgic for when they were children, enraptured by his every word. For a while, he wasn’t sure if Genji was doing the same, but either way, Hanzo would politely participate when they’d both go off on tangents. At one otherwise quiet dinner, Genji revealed that had been doing research of his own and come up with some new theories – to the absolute delight of Sojiro. Hanzo was just shocked Genji put that much work into anything even remotely resembling an academic pursuit. But in that moment he saw Sojiro’s eyes sparkle over Genji’s musings like they never had for anything Hanzo had done. He felt a wall solidify between them like a physical force. Something like anger or just disappointment constricted around his throat – he pushed it down before he could process the feeling, and quietly finished his meal.

 

The Elders, in the meantime, were beginning to more openly show their disapproval over Sojiro’s persistent obsession. But with no means to reel in Genji while Sojiro batted them away, they were willing to let it slide if it meant giving him the motivation to at least stick to his training. So gentle discouragement from listening to their father’s silly tales was usually all they offered. Hanzo did his best to be diplomatic. He needed them to have confidence in his ability to reason, but he also didn’t want them going behind his back and telling Sojiro that his eldest had outgrown his fairytales. Genji, as usual, just completely ignored them. 

 

What the Elders didn’t understand was that by then, Genji hardly required an outside force to motivate him to train. If there were one thing on earth his brother could be counted on to apply himself to, it was fighting. Mastering traditional weapons as well as modern ones had always been a point of pride to the clan. Guns were basic, but the daisho, bow, shuriken – those were artistry. Both brothers thrived in the dojo, regardless of whether or not their skills would impress mythic beasts. As children, the thought did get them both to regularly practice, but as teenagers, it became more about sibling rivalry than anything else. Genji always thought Hanzo too stuck up, rigid, and no fun at all. Hanzo considered Genji too irresponsible and reckless. Lock them in a room together too long and they would inevitably viciously argue. Give them a mat and put swords in their hands and soon enough the thrill and exertion of the sparring would thin their tempers. Hanzo and Genji disagreed on ranged weapons, but the sword had been one of their few shared passions. When things got too tense between them, one good fight later, they were snarking at each other over ramen the loser had to pay for. It was a relaxing reprieve from everything – Hanzo wouldn’t have to worry so much about how he presented himself and Genji would rather die than kiss his ass like most everyone else. The next day would always have something to get them bickering again, but every once in a while, for the span of a large bowl of noodles, they were just brothers.

 

But even those moments began to fade in frequency. As his father grew older and not any less stubborn, the Elders were demanding more of Hanzo’s time. He still trained, but less and less with Genji, and there was never time to go out afterward. Not that Genji would likely have gone with him anyway. As Hanzo’s social circle shrank, his only go wider. He was allowed to travel for university, while Hanzo was required to remain within commuting distance. Years of Sojiro being slowly undermined with steadily increasing audacity was coming to a head. The Elders were pressing him to retire, and putting the pressure on Hanzo to take up more responsibilities within the clan. He transitioned from learning how to manage the family business, to actively participating. It meant a lot of paperwork and planning, but also a great number of opportunities to put his training to use. Solo assassinations were a well worn tool in his kit by the time he started his university classes.

 

He’d seen it all coming, of course. It was from these same family members that Hanzo learned the staggering amount of ways one could politely call someone crazy. He would remind them that Sojiro was still their leader, but all that accomplished was showing Hanzo the multitude of ways one could deliver an insincere apology. But they all treated him with the utmost respect – provided he agreed to whatever they thought was best. Hanzo was an asset, despite the blood relations, and they were quick to remind him of the gap in age and experience. Many of them had, of course, been skilled and effective killers in their day – going from cutthroats to diplomats in the span of a few seconds. The Elders were power hungry, and they were powerful already. If Sojiro was going to be pushed into early retirement, Hanzo needed them to be on his side. Running the Shimada Clan with the pack of them actively working against him would drive them all into the ground, Hanzo was sure of it. 

 

He saw his father less and less, only managing a family dinner every so often. But he did put in the effort when he had the chance. Sojiro was increasingly surrounded by sneering enemies and Hanzo did not want to be seen as one of them. Despite everything, he did still love his father and spent time with him when possible. But sometimes it took convincing that Hanzo wasn’t just the Elders’ pawn to steal away Sojiro’s empire. Not that he’d been putting much energy into it lately anyway. Hanzo suspected he stuck his heels into the ground out of spite and just didn’t want to let them win. He did his best to steer conversations away from anything work related, but it was difficult. 

 

Work was more or less the only thing Hanzo ever did now. If he weren’t doing something for school, he was attending to clan business. If he were doing neither of those, he was probably stalking prey from the shadows. Murder and sabotage had become just as mundane as anything else – it was what he’d trained all those years to do. Japan had supers just like anywhere else, after all. Any self respecting criminal needed to be good, stealthy or preferably both to keep from drawing attention while out on his own. At least where the larger imports and exports operations were concerned, the Shimadas could count on pocketed politicians to keep any interlopers at bay. 

 

It all rattled around in Hanzo’s head constantly, occasionally breaking loose and sending shockwaves through his lungs. There was a garden path he would take, fragrant and obscured by trees, where he could hide away for a moment’s peace. He couldn’t look weak in front of the family – the Elders would set on him like vultures and Sojiro would just be coldly disappointed. Genji never answered his texts, much less his calls, until some unholy hour of night. Even when he did, Hanzo couldn’t manage to dislodge the words. There was absolutely no way he would ever put anything in  _ writing _ , so the most consoling he ever got from his otherwise oblivious brother was a beaming selfie with two word platitudes. He considered for the briefest of seconds trying to make friends in his classes, but there were innumerable ways in which that was a terrible idea. To start with, there was always an unspoken barrier between himself and his peers. Between his upbringing and life as an actual yakuza lord, how could he even begin to relate to them? Not to mention the intricate tattoo winding up his left arm had been completed at that point – a process that began after his first successful mission for the family, and marked him now for what he was. Not that visual confirmation was required. Everyone in Hanamura knew the Shimada name, and his classmates were happy to give him a wide berth. It wasn’t long before he decided to just ignore all of them, get through his degree, then hide away in his fortress. At least there he knew how to act. There he had a purpose. 

 

The clouds around Hanzo finally broke when Genji came home to visit. The Elders were, of course, dismissive of him as soon as he arrived. His hair was dyed an acidic green and his clothing was just as loud. He even had a few new piercings to better accommodate his apparent need to wear far too much jewelry. The Elders nudged Hanzo to only spend as much time with Genji as was courteous, but for at least this one thing, he pushed back. A family dinner with the three of them was promptly arranged and for the first time in ages, Sojiro was elated. Hanzo needed it as much as his father. Just a few hours of pleasant company with the only family he could trust not to hold his every minor misstep against him. Genji was making obnoxious jokes and bragging about conquests and college parties from the moment he set foot on the castle grounds. Hanzo wasn’t even bothered. 

 

Genji spent most of the day with their father, while Hanzo sped through clan business to keep the Elders at bay. As the time came closer, Hanzo gave the order to the staff with deadly certainty: Their meal was not to be disturbed by  _ anyone _ . If it was not someone’s job to bring or remove dishware, they were not to enter the room. When evening set in, he was at the table ten minutes early. Genji and Sojiro were five minutes late. But it didn’t matter – the three of them, at long last, were able to sit and talk and be a family free from politics. 

 

They laughed, open and genuine, as Genji regaled them with his misadventures at university. The constricting knots in Hanzo’s chest were loosened and finally, he felt like he could breathe. Conversation hit a lull, but he still felt light and warm while he sipped his sake. Then Genji turned to Sojiro, cleared his throat, and declared that he’d been doing some thinking – about dragons. Hanzo’s hand stalled with a heavy pause as he went to take another drink. Sojiro was intrigued – Hanzo never spoke of them anymore and he’d missed trading theories. 

 

Genji straightened up like he was giving a presentation. The Shimada who could summon them, he said, lived back when the clan were lords proper, controlling stretches of land and subjects. The dragons came to their aid as they defended themselves, their land, and their people against aggressors. 

 

Sojiro nodded. Hanzo’s eyes narrowed.

 

Genji continued. No Shimada in any modern era had ever been worthy of a dragon, because every modern Shimada was only looking out for the family, no one else. And the family hadn’t exactly been noble lords in a good couple centuries. 

 

Sojiro asked him what he was getting at. Hanzo felt the answer he knew was coming rip open a pit in his stomach.

 

“You have to be worthy as a  _ person _ . Just being the best Shimada is meaningless to a dragon.”

 

Genji’s words pierced slow and hot into Hanzo’s chest. He and Sojiro went on discussing, but Hanzo heard none of it. He was shot back into a similar setting years past, where his father had nothing but praise for Genji’s musings – praise like Hanzo never got for anything. Then back further still, to childhood promises to be the greatest leader the clan had ever seen. It wasn’t enough to be good, his father had said, he needed to be the best. 

 

Hanzo stared, unseeing at his sake. Then slowly raised his head.

 

Genji was still talking. Sojiro was nodding, looking contemplative.

 

Genji, who never spared a drop of worry for anything related to clan business. Genji, who understood nothing of what Hanzo had been dealing with. Spoiled, arrogant,  _ ignorant _ Genji, who always,  _ always _ got what he wanted and never worked for  _ anything _ . 

 

Telling Sojiro – who even then, clung to the dream that his sons could one day be supernaturally protected from even the indiscriminate hands of fate – that nothing Hanzo had done mattered. Everything he had struggled to accomplish, every absurd standard he was forced to meet since the day he was born – Genji was arguing that it had all been meaningless according to the only metric that mattered to their father. 

 

Their  _ father _ , who would close himself off to Hanzo even further because despite everything he’d done for the family – he still couldn’t meet the unknowable criteria of a mythological creature. 

 

His fingernails bit into his palms. Blood seared through his veins. The sight of them frayed at the edges. 

 

“Dragons are not real. They have _never_ _been_ real.”

 

His voice was steady, commanding, and loomed over the room. Genji and Sojiro looked at him, wide eyed. Hanzo’s focus did not falter, even as Genji’s face pinched in confusion. He wanted the fire under his skin to cut through the both of them.

 

Genji stuttered and tried to recover the mood with a joke, but it was far too late. Sojiro met Hanzo’s eyes and it was like an understanding swept over him. His expression turned harsh, the lines of his face deep set with contempt. Hanzo had gotten disappointed looks from his father before, but this was something else entirely. He stalled internally, not sure how to respond. So he just sat with his back straight and stare unwavering.

 

He was not prepared to see Sojiro’s anger drain slowly away until all that was left was placid disdain. As though his son were a low-level underling who’d just given him mildly bad news. The look thudded deep in Hanzo’s core and hung on his heart like a lead weight. 

 

He excused himself from the table and never ate with his father or brother ever again.

 

Genji went back to school a few days later, having failed to pin Hanzo down to talk to him. He did appreciate the effort, and the irony of Genji trying to find  _ him _ to talk – but Hanzo just couldn’t stomach the energy it would take to hash anything out. Sojiro, unsurprisingly, retreated to his rooms and made no attempts to reconcile. Hanzo didn’t care to try either, and left his father to his own devices. The Elders couldn’t be more pleased with the development.

 

Sojiro was strong armed into retirement three days after Hanzo’s graduation. Both events passed without much comment or fanfare – each was an inevitability, nothing shocking or impressive. At least not to anyone in Shimada Castle. Genji sent Hanzo a slew of distraught texts when he found out, claiming that Sojiro had been unjustly shelved and he should do something about it. Hanzo rolled his eyes. He had been the functional leader of the Shimada Clan for a year up to that point. Sojiro was perpetually pouting and the Elders were fed up. If Hanzo was done defending him, they were done consulting him. They only waited till Hanzo was finished with school as a formality. Though just having the official title hadn’t really changed things much. If anything, the Elders were even more critical. Hanzo was still occasionally hiding out in the garden, but now he was the one ignoring Genji’s messages. They were always the same complaints anyway. When it eventually came time for him to graduate, Genji informed him that he wasn’t ready to come home. Not surprising, considering in Hanamura he might be expected to care about the family as an educated adult. But it didn’t matter. Genji would linger a while longer away from the castle and it would be one less headache for Hanzo to deal with.

 

Sometime in the haze that was his early years as official head of the clan, Hanzo was approached with a new venture. A cybernetic prosthetics company was expanding its reach into slightly more combat ready applications. They were courting the Shimada Clan as a potential investor and the possibilities were making the Elders’ collective heads spin. Hanzo conceded that it was intriguing and looked into it. The company itself was well regarded, profitable, and paid their taxes like any law abiding organization. On the surface, everything seemed to be in order – but something just felt off. There were no hints anywhere public or even a few layers south of public that they had any intentions to move into more conflict focused technologies. A seemingly squeaky clean, multi-national company seeking favor with a yakuza family? Far be it from him to be hypocritical enough to shy away from a deal just because it was shady, but there was more to it than that. They didn’t just want the Shimada family to buy in, they wanted beta testers. A criminal organization would hardly care about regulations, and would have the money and expendable personnel to work out the kinks in prototype equipment. Hanzo didn’t particularly like the idea of even the low rung lackeys of the clan being used as guinea pigs. It set a bad precedent, for one, and he wouldn’t have them known as easy marks for companies peddling half finished wares. He was already prepared to decline when Sojiro decided to make a scene.

 

He found out about the proposal and wanted to make his disapproval known – loudly. He burst into the conference room and insisted they shoot it down. Before Hanzo could tell him he was already going to, Sojiro went on a rant about allowing the influence of machines toxify the blood of the Shimada. Everyone was taken aback, for various reasons. The Elders scoffed at his reasoning for denying such a potentially profitable investment. Hanzo just didn’t expect this of all things to be what got his father back into clan business. He had lived through the Omnic Crisis, so it would be somewhat understandable if he just had a chip on his shoulder about robotics – but the family employed Omnics. Not many in the core house staff, but they’re were enough in their ranks for it to be perceived as a non-issue. 

 

Then the wording sank in and Hanzo sighed. The blood of the Shimada. Sojiro must have seen what Hanzo had, knew that the Elders would be chomping at the bit to try out some new toys. And he didn’t want technology muddying the waters for whatever power he thought was in their family line. It was exceedingly ridiculous on all accounts, and Hanzo told him as much. Sojiro was clearly offended, but his response was swallowed by shock when Hanzo denied the Elders anyway. Now they were all gaping at him. Hanzo calmly explained his position and told them all if they wanted to personally invest, he wouldn’t stop them, but the way they were approached makes him suspicious. The Shimada would not be the testing grounds for any ambitious R&D, and their suitors could come back when they had more to offer. 

 

The Elders gave a stilted acceptance to his declaration, but Sojiro took a moment longer to recover. He straightened himself up and commented cooly on how glad he was that perhaps Hanzo was not the puppet he’d feared he’d become. Sojiro was ushered out, but his parting words snapped a chord in Hanzo. He strained to remain seated as he grappled with the loaded statement. On one hand, he was infuriated – his father acting like he didn’t pawn him off on the Elders constantly so he could get them off his back and play with Genji. On the other, a cold understanding was needling in from all sides. It wasn’t just that Hanzo denied the validity of Sojiro’s main coping mechanism – in that moment of Hanzo’s outburst at dinner, Sojiro looked at his son and saw nothing but an expertly crafted tool, primed to work against him. Hanzo was equal parts indignant and ashamed. He looked around the room and thought of the years upon years of undermining Sojiro had to endure from the people around him. Hearing his own son discount him the same way so many of his bitter relatives had would have been hard to swallow. Not that it excused anything else he’d done, but it was enough to make Hanzo feel conflicted about the whole episode. 

 

He considered scheduling time to spend with Sojiro. They hadn’t spoken one on one in ages – perhaps it was time for them to clear the air. Hanzo didn’t expect much of a reconciliation, but it would ease his mind to at least reach some sort of understanding. They might not come out the other side of it liking each other any better, but at least each would know where the other was coming from. Hanzo finally made the invitation, and then three more after the first was declined. His persistence paid off, and Sojiro agreed to meet with him. They would go somewhere away from the castle, away from the prying ears of various aunts, uncles, and second cousins. In a bout of nostalgia, Hanzo decided to go to the ramen shop he and Genji used to frequent. As was customary, he arrived a minimum of ten minutes early. 

 

Sojiro never arrived at all.

 

At first Hanzo had grown bitter, thinking his father stood him up. The call he received flushed the feeling instantly, leaving him cold. Sojiro Shimada had been assassinated. 

 

It took some time before Hanzo was able to move. He could feel the onslaught of complex emotions waiting to overtake him, only being held back by a thin membrane of shock. More calls and messages began filtering in, all with condolences and tasks to complete. Hanzo only just managed to respond to any of them. The air in his lungs was getting heavier, the cold in his gut turning to nausea – his window of lucidity was closing. If he were going to be in any state to give orders upon his return, he would have to leave immediately. He fled the ramen shop and forced himself to think of nothing but tasks. He desperately needed distractions, logistics, anything to avoid direct contact with the concept of his – of his father’s –

 

He passed through the gates of the castle and was greeted with news, details, plans. Apparently Sojiro was attacked outside the castle grounds shortly after Hanzo had left himself. Hanzo snatched the tablet from the security staffer’s hands – much more aggressively than he intended. He glared at it, and the cluster of people around him fell silent. It didn’t make sense. Sojiro Shimada had never once been on time to a family function at any point in Hanzo’s entire life. Granted, these had been somewhat unusual circumstances, but if he had planned on leaving so closely to Hanzo, why not just travel with him? The more he thought about it, the fewer pieces fit together. The shuddering barrier between himself and the wave of emotions threatening to engulf him was cracking. Just then – through mercy or malice, Hanzo had no idea which – Elders started trickling into his office. Everyone wanted answers, how to further secure the grounds, when to hold funerary services, who to invite – Hanzo forcibly set his mind to addressing all of it. He was strung thin, like any moment a single word would snap him in two. But he was their leader and Sojiro was his father – he had to handle it.

 

Funeral arrangements were made quickly. It made Hanzo’s head spin – one day he was waiting to recover his relationship with his father, the next he was at his wake. The room was flooded with flowers arranged in twisting waves. Attendees meandered in and out, lighting incense as they made the rounds. There was an awful sense of déjà vu, as Hanzo sat staring at his hands, the proceedings blurring around him. He robotically performed the tasks required, then counted the minutes to an appropriate time to leave. He was getting close when Genji burst in the door. His brother had been messaged as a footnote to the night before. Hanzo had been busy being pulled in every direction and frankly, he didn’t want to weather whatever questions Genji might have at the time. Apparently he’d seen the news and rushed home. Voices were raised, Genji’s and a few others. Hanzo remained numb to it and fixated on his hands. He was dropped unceremoniously back into reality when Genji pulled him up by the collar. Hanzo was saved from addressing whatever concerns he was yelling about by the guards pulling him off. His brother’s face was red, angry, and wet with tears. Hanzo was firmly locked in a respectful neutral, which was apparently enough to quiet the outburst. Now he just glared with fury in his eyes. The guards escorted him out and Hanzo followed shortly after. 

 

He forgoed any appointments he had and instead walked down his favorite, secluded garden path. He rested on a stone bench and let the sakura petals drizzle down over him. All was quiet but the wind. Inside, Hanzo was in a brittle stalemate. He wanted to let go, feel everything in a rush, just to get it out, rather than constantly teetering on the edge of a breakdown. But he also wanted to feel nothing at all. Bypass the risk of being caught in an emotional episode and just bury everything deep enough for him to function normally. He set his back against a tree and stared up into the canopy above. He mused at what it would have been like if he’d been able to meet his father. Would they have come to an understanding? Would he have gotten an apology? An admonishment? The flowers blurred into a pink haze as his eyes warmed over with tears. He wrenched them closed and gritted his teeth against the misery trying to claw its way out of his throat. Hanzo sat there for the better part of an hour in silence, head in his hands, taking carefully measured breaths. It was all the mourning he could allow himself.

 

Life continued on at Shimada Castle. The strict adherence to routine was helpful for Hanzo to scrape together an equilibrium, but there was something new under the surface. Or perhaps it wasn’t new at all and Hanzo had just never been so aware of it before. A tension he could feel under his skin – a sense that something was profoundly wrong. Genji must have felt it too. He moved back into the estate as soon possible after the funeral. Though he very obviously had no desire to speak to Hanzo. If they met in passing, Genji offered him only hateful glares or a very pointed disregard for his presence. It was to be expected. Genji had never been much of a fan of his family’s dealings but now he seemed to view it all with outright contempt. Hanzo had no doubt that his brother understood the situation just the same as he did. 

 

Sojiro was killed before he set foot outside the gates, Hanzo was absolutely certain of it. Perhaps it happened the second Hanzo himself was out of sight of the castle. Sojiro had made the mistake of trying to exercise power over the Elders after they’d already pushed him aside – and Hanzo left him alone with them. Genji would suspect the same, though he wouldn’t have access to the information to back anything up – not that that would stop him confronting anyone. 

 

Which, of course, he did, in his own inelegant sort of way. Apparently one of the close personal guards of their great aunt had mentioned being glad they didn’t have to worry about Sojiro going crazy on anyone anymore. Genji was eavesdropping and made an implication that the Elders were responsible for his death. A comment that passed with impressive speed to each and every one of them. A meeting was called with a surprising amount of family members in attendance, including the Elders, both brothers, and a handful of up and coming cousins. Genji was on his guard for the duration, Hanzo just did his best to project power and authority while internally praying his brother didn’t make a scene. The Elders all gently admonished Genji while providing a number of hurt, but sympathetic sentiments. Genji rolled his eyes and Hanzo fought not to do the same – but then they did something unexpected.

 

They acknowledged that events didn’t add up as well as they’d like and that it was possible someone got inside the castle. Genji was stunned, Hanzo was suspicious. The meeting evolved into talks on new security methods and systems. It was all shockingly tame and agreeable until one of their cousins demurely requested the floor. Katsuya was his name, and he began with an apology. He understood that Hanzo wasn’t thrilled by the idea of working with the cybernetics company, but he had been intrigued. He’d been doing research and speaking with representatives (on his own time, he was sure to add) since they first approached. One of the products they’d recently finalized would be perfect for Hanzo – he just didn’t think of it until the topic of their leader’s personal safety came up. 

 

Hanzo’s eyes narrowed, but he Elders, pleased at his initiative, urged him to continue. One of the security measures they’d already discussed was installing sensors that would pick up on body heat and movement. Tripping one would alert handheld devices, but the readouts were simplistic – only providing the information that trespassers were inside and how many had entered. What if Hanzo could  _ see _ anyone coming near him as though the walls weren’t there. According to the people he’d spoken to, they had eye implants that could read several types of input, including the sonic feedback from the sensors. Katsuya proposed that Hanzo allow himself to receive such augmentation, ensuring that no one would ever be able to come within nine meters without being seen, regardless of the setting. 

 

Hanzo had to admit it was a good pitch. And knowing for a fact that he was alone somewhere might do his mental wellbeing some good. Katsuya sensed an opening and clarified that it was not a prototype – the implants had been fully tested and certified, they were simply waiting on patents. Hanzo was still wavering, however, mostly because giving in would open the door for the Elders to once again raise the issue of investing more heavily – in both money and test subjects. Genji interrupted his thoughts, asking if he were seriously considering going along with any plan endorsed by  _ these people _ . The room went briefly silent, and Hanzo’s eyes were pulled slowly shut by dread.

 

The Elders acted offended, but Genji had just thrown Hanzo into their waiting jaws. Before, he might have been able to come up with some noncommittal response to worm his way out of making a decision then and there. Now it didn’t matter what he said, it could all be countered with “why not? Do you really think your family would try to harm you?' He’d be seen as being influenced by his brother, and who knew what they’d do to Genji for being so inconvenient. There was nothing for it now – Hanzo had to agree to the implants. 

 

The family was pleased. Genji stormed off. Hanzo latched onto the idea that if nothing else, this might give him some peace of mind. 

 

Arrangements were made and surgery scheduled for as soon as materials could be sent over. 

 

In the days before the operation, the Elders went easy on Hanzo. They told him that he should take time off so he would be in good health before going under the knife. Any of them suggesting that he  _ not _ work was deeply unsettling, but Hanzo didn’t argue. He tried to find Genji and at least make an attempt at explaining himself, but his brother was clearly avoiding him. Hanzo actually laughed. What a pair they were – neither ever around when the other wanted to talk. 

 

The day of his surgery arrived. The clan cleared out an entire hospital floor for Hanzo. As he was escorted down the pristine hallways, he cataloged every argument he could think of to keep the Elders from snowballing his one concession into many. He changed into his hospital gown and thought of the garden path under the trees – being able to finally let go, knowing for certain that there was no one around to penalize him for it. He laid down on the bed, staring at the pale white ceiling, while an IV drip was pricked into his arm.

 

The world slowly faded.

 

When next he opened his eyes it required a significant amount of effort. He felt heavy and sore across the full expanse of his body. His thoughts were lagging and it took several seconds longer than it should have for him to recall where he was. A feminine voice echoed in his ears. His head listed toward it and his mind dragged enough signals together to recognize the figure he saw as a nurse. She waited patiently while he crawled toward consciousness. When he could finally process actual thoughts, he realized his body had remained sluggish and not terribly responsive. 

 

The nurse introduced herself and explained the situation. The sedatives he had been on were quite powerful and would take a while to fully wear off. He had, after all, been under for several days while he recovered. 

 

Hanzo looked at her with open confusion. Several days? Had there been complications? He had been assured that it was a fairly quick and straightforward process. He strained to drag his head back to look in front of him. Whatever was wrong, it hadn’t affected his vision – maybe there was an issue and it all needed to be reversed. A gentle tone chimed near the nurse and she informed someone that Hanzo was awake. 

 

Something wasn’t right. The nurse pushed a button on the bed and it began moving to prop him up better – presumably to receive company. But Hanzo wanted to move – or at least be  _ able _ to move. He could feel his muscles reacting to his brain’s demands, but there simply wasn’t enough strength in them for the task. He tried harder, but the lazy aching in his bones protested and indignantly weighed him down. 

 

The door opened. Katsuya and their great uncle Setsuo entered with two guards wheeling in a cart laden with armor. They bid him good afternoon and offered their congratulations on his successful recovery. Hanzo mustered up as much of a glare as possible, then came to the harrowing realization that he could not speak. There wasn’t a single muscle in his body he could coax into obeying him to any acceptable degree, and that apparently included his tongue. The nurse politely excused Hanzo’s unresponsiveness and explained that there were a number of side effects from him coming out of his various medications. 

 

They all kept their eyes on him, responding to each other in loose, rehearsed platitudes. Hanzo felt the heat leaching from his body. Somewhere behind the building tsunami of horror, he’d already figured out what happend, but refused to set words to the notion.

 

Katsuya handled that part for him.

 

For the sake of Hanzo’s safety and wellbeing, they had taken the liberty of adding a few other items to the list – since he was going into surgery anyway, best to just get it done all at once. In addition to his eyes, there had also been modifications to his limbs and spine. Much had been imbedded into his legs, increasing speed, shock absorption, that sort of thing. There was less in his arms so as to avoid too much interference with muscle memory for his weapons usage – mainly general durability of tendons, etc. His spine had really just been reinforced against whiplash. All very basic upgrades in the grand scheme of things. 

 

Hanzo was trying desperately to stay calm. Not that he could jump up and strangle anyone if he tried – but the more he panicked, the more he felt like he needed to claw his way out of his own skin. He was such an idiot – he really didn’t think they’d have the  _ audacity _ to even consider pulling something like this. 

 

They moved to the armor like Hanzo wasn’t trying to murder them with his eyes. They explained its functions and the syncing, but Hanzo was barely listening. Setsuo’s phone pinged and Hanzo’s eyes snapped to it – those at least, were still decently responsive. The old man looked at the phone with a pleasant curiosity, then turned to the nurse and asked, wasn’t cortisol a stress chemical? Should Hanzo have quite so much of it currently?

 

It should not have been possible for Hanzo to go any more still, but at that, even his breathing stopped. The nurse said again that going off the medications would produce somewhat unpredictable side effects. She turned and smiled at him, knowingly giving him an excuse. His great uncle nodded easily and said they’d have to keep an eye on him once he was discharged – for his health. They could monitor a surprising amount of data through that armor – and its range was substantial. 

 

All Hanzo could feel was the revulsion in his gut and the dull, radiating pain in his bones. This was what they wanted – to ensnare him utterly, without dampening his effectiveness as a tool. And he let them – he walked right into it. His brain staggered back down the path that led him to that hospital bed, then everything in him just started shutting down. It was too much, he couldn’t think anymore. 

 

The nurse asked politely if they were finished – Hanzo needed a bit more rest to work through any other unfortunate byproducts of his condition. They were, and offered casual goodbyes as they meandered out. The nurse smiled again at Hanzo, adjusting something on the IV bag. Then she too, stood, bowed lightly, and left.

 

Hanzo’s mind was an impenetrable tangle of warring impulses, all contained in a body too drugged up to do anything about it. His eyes were still fixed on the door when he felt the spreading numbness coming from the needle in his arm. He wanted to thrash and panic, cry out, break something, vomit – but his vision was already tunneling again. His body was made even more of a dead weight, and he couldn’t even have the satisfaction of hyperventilating. The world faded once again, and he sunk heavily into the darkness.

 

When Hanzo was brought back home, he found out he’d been gone for a month and a half. He again, very much wanted to be sick. His voice was returning, but it remained hoarse. He wanted to scream until it broke. He spotted Genji in the courtyard, but his brother turned up his nose and walked away. Hanzo wanted to throw himself at his feet. 

 

His brother hated him, he understood that, but Genji was also the only one left who had never tried to manipulate him. The only other person he knew who hated the clan in equal magnitude. Hanzo had never been terribly fond of the other Shimada, but he’d been raised to honor and uphold the legacy of their family. He was to be the leader – if he didn’t like where things were going, he would correct the course. Pull them in line with what needed to be done – be the best of them and lead by example. Somewhere in his head, even after Sojiro was killed, he had still held onto that thought. Part of him so sure that if he could just stabilize in his role, he would find the answer to making the Shimada Clan more than just backbiting snakes.

 

If such a scenario were possible, it was lost to him now. He’d taken too long, been too ineffective – or perhaps the family was just too poisonous to start with. Now he was trapped. Any Elder he came across commented on his health – specifically things only his biometrics could have told them. They wanted him to know it was data they all had access to at any given point in time. On the occasions that he was sent out wearing the armor, they commented on how his vitals could still be monitored from the castle. Cheery assurances meant to remind him that they could use the suit’s signal range to track him and they’d know immediately if he tried to take it off. 

 

Hanzo started training obsessively when he was at home, just to give him an excuse to have his heart rate up – to feel  _ anything _ without someone popping in to comment on it. The exertion was freeing after walking the grounds more on guard than he had ever been in his life. The Elders weren’t monitoring him constantly, he knew that, but there was no telling when one of them might check in. Or what arbitrary notifications they had set up tied to one hormone or another. He would periodically practice in the middle of the night hoping it was waking one of them up. A tiny rebellion, petty and immature, but he held onto whatever he could get.

 

They did, of course, revisit the issue of bringing in more cybernetics since Hanzo had such great success. He firmly stonewalled them, saying what he had was still fairly new – they should wait in case there are long term side effects. The Elders all had their phones on the table, unsubtly taunting him, ready to jump on anything that could be deemed a weakness. But by then Hanzo was getting good at maintaining a frigid neutral – at least in meetings. Outside, without proper distractions, it was much harder. He found himself, once again, hiding away among the trees. 

 

Everything was wrong – so wrong. He and Sojiro had both been cruelly played from the very beginning. The only thing the Elders ever wanted was a useful figurehead that could be easily converted into the perfect scapegoat. One way or another, all the work he’d done and all the plans he’d made to try to be the best possible leader – it had truly been meaningless. The Elders had gotten exactly what they were looking for and he’d been too foolish to see any of it coming. There was no Shimada  _ family _ – the only  _ real _ family he had were either dead or hated him. 

 

A desperate misery curdled in his heart. He was trapped without even solitude to escape into, with no one else to blame, and no one else to talk to. His vision clouded over with tears that he could not beat back. He pleaded silently that the spirit of his father, the spirit of  _ anything _ , would give him guidance, for he had no idea what to do. Not surprisingly, nothing answered. Hanzo closed his eyes and allowed himself the tiny mercy of weeping, just a little, before burying it all enough to return to reality. 

 

He decided to practice his swordplay that night – to find another training post and tear it to pieces. He had just finished his warm up, when the sound of footsteps threw his attention to the door of the dojo. 

 

It was Genji. 

 

Hanzo froze, caught between pure elation of seeing his brother, and the dread of what he might say. He stood up straight, quickly trying to come up with an appropriate greeting and debating if he should unceremoniously drop his weapon to the floor – when he heard another blade being drawn. The ringing of it echoing in the high walls of the dojo scattered his thoughts and his body went numb. Hanzo had been so preoccupied he hadn’t noticed Genji came armed.

 

“It’s been a while since we’ve sparred, hasn’t it brother.” Genji casually adjusted his grip and examined his sword. “We never got along so well as when we were trying to beat the shit out of each other. I wanted to talk, but something told me I’d need a little something extra to get any honesty out of you.” His words were light and airy, but his eyes were sharp. “So,” he lowered the blade between them, body poised at lethal angles, “Let’s chat.”

 

It was a scene they’d played out a thousand times – teenage frustration peaking and one challenging the other with wooden swords. But this version was so wrong, Hanzo could hardly comprehend what he was seeing. 

 

“What –  _ is _ this?” Hanzo wasn’t even sure what to ask. 

 

Genji shifted subtly forward and Hanzo reacted in an instant. His brother’s blade sounded out against his own as he parried the attack. 

 

“This is an interrogation.” Genji pressed in and Hanzo backed away. “I’ve done what I could to get to the bottom of this mess, but I admit, things like  _ investigations _ don’t really play into my strengths  _ at all _ .” 

 

“ _ What _ are you talking about?” Hanzo couldn’t stop his utter confusion from blurting out the question.

 

Genji settled in his stance and raised his blade. “You and the Elders fucking over the family and  _ murdering _ our father.”

 

For a moment, the room held an almost perfect silence.

 

“You – you think  _ I _ –” Hanzo’s response was cut short as Genji’s sword drove forward. His own swept down to redirect it into the floor.

 

“No fucking shit, I think  _ you _ did it – you and the rest of the assholes in charge here.”

 

Genji moved swiftly, Hanzo parried, but he continued losing ground.

 

“You could have stopped all of this! But you let them think father was crazy, then you shoved him aside the second you were able to. And when he wouldn’t stay out of sight, you and the Elders murdered him.”

 

Memories caught like burrs on the edges of Hanzo’s mind. Fragments of a lifetime of wasted effort. He staggered back as Genji once again pushed forward.

 

“Now look at you,” Genji’s voice was as cold as Hanzo had ever heard it, “jacked up on whatever shit they put in you, and for what? To be the best Shimada?”

 

Everything snapped into place, and Hanzo finally understood. A wave of fury crashed over him so intensely that for a moment he couldn’t move.

 

“The magnitude of your ignorance could fill an ocean.” Hanzo’s words were ragged when he spoke. Genji didn’t seem impressed and lunged at him yet again. 

 

This time, Hanzo sliced his brother’s blade to the side then raised the piercing end of his own to Genji’s face. Genji quickly backed off, putting a safe distance between them, but never took his eyes off Hanzo. 

 

Hanzo did not lower his sword, and did not stop moving forward.

 

“You have  _ no idea _ what I have suffered so you could enjoy the  _ privilege _ of being so  _ completely _ ignorant.” There was a fury rising in his chest, so hysterical in its quality, that Hanzo was not sure if he’d ever felt anything like it.

 

Genji was on the defensive now, cowed slightly by the livid intent in Hanzo’s movements. 

 

“I know more than you think,” he spouted, “I may not be as wise as father or as conniving as any of  _ you _ – but I’ve hit on truths you won’t even acknowledge.”

 

“You want truth?” Hanzo almost felt dizzy. The weight of everything he’d been holding back –  _ years _ of it – was closing around him like a vice. “I did  _ everything _ our father asked of me, and he still fed me to the wolves for  _ your _ sake. But still I  _ tried _ . I was here trying to make things right.” 

 

His sword came down hard on Genji’s, whose guard buckled and was forced to give ground. 

 

“You think  _ I _ betrayed  _ him _ ? Where were  _ you _ ? Where were  _ either _ of you when I was choking on the life  _ he _ saddled me with!?” 

 

The air was ringing with the sounds of metal against metal. Hanzo’s strikes were flowing faster, while Genji’s counters were getting sloppy.

 

“Where were you when they  _ stole my body from me _ ?”

 

Hanzo’s voice was dripping with venom and the full force of his wrath was singing down the edge of his blade. Fear had crept into Genji’s eyes and he was running out of space to back into.

 

“Don’t you dare speak to  _ me _ about acknowledging truths!”

 

Hanzo’s next blow knocked Genji back against the wall. The massive scroll hanging there rattled from the impact. Everything else fell away. All that existed for Hanzo was the searing flood of emotions and the image of his brother. His brother, who had attacked him and denied his pain. The torrent propelled him, and Hanzo again moved forward.

 

Genji held up his guard, and the panic that had risen in his face shifted to determination. An intense flash of green snaked over his shoulder and startled Hanzo so much he nearly tripped over himself reeling back. The sweep of Genji’s sword was trailing light when it swung for him. Hanzo arm erupted in pins and needles as he brought his blade up to meet it. The force of the impact was intense, Hanzo felt the strain of it pressing him down hard into the floor. His brother’s eyes were glowing a radiant green and boring into Hanzo. Genji shifted, preparing to strike again with his sudden strength and  _ burning _ sword. Hanzo dipped the end of his blade down so the force of Genji’s slid off. His arm was still tingling as he brought the edge back around under Genji’s arm and swept it up as hard as he could. There was a swirl of blue and thin strands of lightning so bright Hanzo was briefly blinded. 

 

The scroll on the wall was split at the corner, red stains spreading at the edges. Hanzo stared at it, at a loss for how to explain what just happened. His arm still felt like something was humming just under his skin. He looked at it and found it shaking – then he looked down.

 

Genji was lying prone on the floor. Blood was seeping quickly through his clothes from a vicious red line across his chest. The room was deafeningly silent. 

 

Hanzo couldn’t process the scene, his mind simply would not accept what he was seeing. A wave of alarms in the back of his head were telling him to go, to look away, but he couldn’t. The sword in his hand fell clumsily to the floor. He staggered forward and toppled, unevenly, to his knees. Slowly, he reached out to Genji, like he would spring up any second. A jolt of static arched up, bright and blue, and snapped at Hanzo before his hand got too close. He flinched back and looked again at the full expanse of what he’d done. It finally sunk in.

 

He tore open his brother.

 

_ His brother _ .

 

Panic spiked through his heart and he scrambled to his feet. He bolted from the dojo and grabbed the first patrolling night guard he found. His demands for help were radioed across the castle, and soon the night was full of movement and noise. Guards swarmed Genji’s motionless body, pressing down on the gash Hanzo had cut into him. An ambulance was called and the swords were hidden away. 

 

Hanzo stared from the sidelines. He wanted to help, to hug Genji, to shake him awake, but the memory of the static held him still. As the EMTs rushed in, a guard quietly ushered Hanzo away from the commotion. Genji was taken to the hospital – Hanzo was taken to his room. He stood in the middle of it, only his own thoughts left to focus on. His mind began to mercilessly retrace every step that led him there.

 

It had all been his fault, of course. Genji approached him first, but Hanzo was the one who let himself get carried away by his anger. And even that may not have been entirely justified. It was true that Genji was never there when he needed him, but how could he have known? Genji couldn’t appreciate Hanzo’s struggles, because Hanzo never told him they existed. Just like with Sojiro, he might have realized his own grievous, idiotic mistakes far too late to salvage the relationship. Just like with Sojiro, any chance at reconciliation might not survive the night. Hanzo fell again to his knees. Even if Genji hated him forever, he didn’t deserve to have his life cut short by his own brother of all people. He was irresponsible and idealistic, but he was freer than Hanzo had ever been. His throat constricted and he prayed, beyond anything he had any right to ask for, that Genji would be alright.

 

When the sky just barely began to brighten with the encroaching dawn, Hanzo nearly ran out the door. The rest of the night had passed slowly and Hanzo didn’t sleep for any of it. He had been constantly caught between miserable sorrow and crippling self loathing. It took at least an hour to pull himself into something resembling a functional person. Now there was work to be done. He marched straight to his office, ready to light up the phone for as long as it took. He needed to know if the police were notified, if so (and depending on which ones), he may need to sneak into the hospital. It also meant Genji might have been admitted with an alias, Hanzo would need to figure that out to find the correct room. He didn’t expect his brother would want to see him, but he needed to know if he was well or even – 

 

A binder placed neatly on his desk brought his mental list to a screeching halt. Elegant calligraphy was printed on the cover – the name of the temple the Shimadas always held their funerals in. Cold poured through him and all of his desperate hopes split apart against the surface of that binder. Hazy memories drifted in to take their place – elaborate floral displays, his hands curled in his lap, several sad faces that all blurred together. The smell of incense that in that moment was so acutely remembered that it might as well have been lit in the room. Another funeral. This time, for the only real family he’d had left – and a death that was all his own doing. 

 

He clenched his fists and shut his eyes against the grief and shame swelling in his chest. His mind slid into reveries from the days when they were young. Brothers fighting, laughing, playing – making promises to each other. Before the expectations of his future became too much and Hanzo shut himself away. Now all that remained were a thousand alternate scenarios where he did anything different and neither his father nor his brother were dead. 

 

No, of all the funerals, Genji’s was the one he would not be able to get through. There was just no way he’d be able to face what he’d done presented on an altar, flanked on all sides by the old snakes who –

 

Hanzo’s eyes went wide.

 

The old snakes, who never liked Genji and might have had him killed first if Hanzo hadn’t done it for them.

 

He looked at the funeral planner sitting innocently on his desk. Precious few had access to his office at any point in time, and the entries and exits were recorded. Hanzo took a handful of sweeping, determined steps to get to his computer. The log showed a brief visit by great uncle Setsuo, not that long after Hanzo left for the dojo. Hanzo bitterly estimated how much time passed between when he walked across the grounds and the ambulance taking Genji away. 

 

Even giving license for the spans of time when Hanzo was barely comprehending the world around him – it wasn’t long enough. 

 

Setsuo would have entered just as the EMTs were arriving. He would have come in anticipating Genji dying. The Elders were certainly fond of planning ahead, but that was far too presumptuous, even for them. 

 

A fire was building in Hanzo’s blood. Did they really fear what Genji might have tried to pull so much that they’d ensure he didn’t survive? They were never so simple as that – Hanzo tried to stay composed and turned the situation over in his head. 

 

A useful figurehead and the perfect scapegoat – the only things the Elders ever really wanted from him.

 

Hanzo sneered and glared spitefully at the screen. Letting Genji die meant they would lose one minor thorn, but the true victory would further cement their hold on Hanzo. Killing his brother was an unforgivable crime on every level – and it had nothing to do with the Shimada empire as a whole. If the Elders ever needed a justification to have him lawfully executed, they’d have all the evidence they’d ever need – without having to compromise any of the larger criminal schemes. If they happened to rip out his tongue and cut off all his fingers beforehand, that was their own business. He would deserve it, to be sure, but not for the satisfaction of those decrepit bastards.

 

Hanzo looked down at his hands.

 

What he had always thought was his purpose had become his prison. The only people who’d ever genuinely cared about him at any point in life were dead – two of them because of his own ineptitude. His empire – which had never really even been his – was a sham, full of nothing but vultures clawing at each other. 

 

Slowly, he rose to his feet, and his eyes drifted to the binder. Genji deserved a better send off than a room full of insincere condolences. Though none of this would have happened if he’d had a better brother. “The best Shimada” – what a hideous joke. Genji had been right – being a better  _ person _ would have stopped all this. Being the best  _ Shimada _ made him a monster long before that night. The weight of everything pressed in on his chest again, and he felt himself slipping back into despair. He shook his head and swallowed back the knot in his throat – he couldn’t wallow anymore. There was much he needed to do before too much of the castle began to wake.

 

Hanzo petulantly shoved the binder to the floor, and left the room. 

 

An hour later he was standing outside Setsuo’s chambers, fully composed. His great uncle received him with a delicate modesty, offering solace for the parting of his dear little brother. However, he could not help but note the circumstances surrounding the death. He picked up his phone to check on Hanzo’s status. He was calm and even. Setsuo complimented his recovery, but mentioned that it did seem like he’d had quite the rough evening.

 

Hanzo made no comment, stepped forward, and snapped the old man’s neck with clean precision. Then he went to work. His window of time before anyone got suspicious of Setsuo’s absence, if not his own, was small. Between the phone and the desktop, Hanzo collected the schematics for the armor and everything they’d implanted in him. He took any other miscellaneous files he had the time to download, but then he had to move on. 

 

He hid away in a storage house while he picked over the blueprints for the armor. He found the cluster of circuitry that allowed it to sync to his body and ripped it out. A quick test with Setsuo’s phone confirmed that the link was dead. Seeing the red ‘CANNOT CONNECT’ across the screen was more relief than he’d known in a long time. 

 

Hanzo collected his gear and his nerves. When he left his hiding place, the dawn was in full effect. He silently made his way to the outer wall and effortlessly scaled to the top. He paused to take one last lingering look at Shimada Castle. Golden morning light brushed across the trees. The shadows of the strong, ancient walls were cast in soft blues. The best and worst moments of his life all happened here. Leaving stirred up a bittersweet cocktail of emotions.

 

He supposed the home he knew would be dead too, the moment he set foot on the outside. Only a fortress full of enemies would remain. 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I didn't get into this game expecting to write so many concurrent pages of text, but here we are I guess.


	6. Chapter 6

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Been short on writing time, but I managed to get this sucker out.

The tea had gone cold by the time Hanzo’s reverie had completed its logical course. It was a little surreal, letting himself be pulled through that much history all while surrounded by fragrant herbs and the muffled sounds of hands at work. It was a road he’d traveled many times before – staring at a wall and letting himself be weighed down by the impressive volume of failings he’d had as a leader, brother, and son. He sighed – he wouldn’t sleep well that night. Reminiscing in his waking hours left him feeling hollow and numb – a state he was used to processing at this point. The problem was that it was always a prelude to the proper punishment of reliving it all with vicious clarity in his sleep. Unless of course he got blackout drunk. But with his tight timeline, he couldn’t afford the hangover.

 

Hanzo took the mug of tea and downed it in one go – he didn’t want to be rude and just leave it there. Not to mention it didn’t seem prudent to turn his nose up at a gesture of hospitality from an actual killing machine. He set the emptied mug by the sink and left the soft quiet of the kitchen. Hanzo still needed to be functional for a few more days and being alone with his memories was counterproductive to say the least. He could submit to letting his demons wear him away after he was done in this city. 

 

Bastion was holding up his armor when Hanzo approached from the other end of the workshop. Brigitte was giving it a thorough examination, but looked up when Bastion gleefully bleeted in Hanzo’s direction. 

 

“Ah, you’re just in time! We were giving it a final check before I came to get you.” she beamed, “It took a bit longer than I expected, I hope you weren’t getting bored back there.” 

 

Hanzo paused – he hadn’t even noticed the time passing. He bitterly wondered if he were just getting more ‘nostalgic’ as he got older. It was a dangerous concept and he tried to shove it to the side. 

 

“Not at all. I was only curious.”

 

“Well your curiosity has great timing.” she gestured to the table and gave a quick “Please” to Bastion and the armor was carefully laid flat. “The repairs went smoothly on the exterior panels and I cleaned up the interior circuitry a bit also – except for the uh, one spot.” she stepped to the side of the table, “Feel free to examine everything for yourself!” 

 

He did, turning things over and taking mental notes. The work was quite well done, it looked better than it had in years. 

 

“Your reputation is well earned,” he said finally, “Thank you for your assistance.” He offered her a bow and she pleasantly waved him off.

 

“This was nothing, if you ever decide you want to take this set and upgrade it, come back and see me!” 

 

Hanzo rendered his payment for her services and had to admit he might consider it. Perhaps if he had a chance to return to Gibraltar during a dry spell in his sprawling hunt for his family members. Spans of time where he was stuck searching were happening more often as the leadership had finally shed enough pride to be smart. Hanzo had so dramatically shattered the hierarchy that he wasn’t even sure who was currently counted as head of the clan. Whoever it was had decided it prudent to rule from the shadows rather than under a spotlight where Hanzo could easily find them. 

 

“Hey Mr. My Name is Definitely Hayashi,” Torbjorn’s gruff voice chimed in just as Hanzo was about to leave. Surely everyone in the room would have assumed the name he gave was fake, so unnecessarily highlighting it made Hanzo edgy. He turned to Torbjorn and his mind once again reminded him of how many turret barrels were following his every move.

 

“Watch your hide out there,” he said with a surprising grimness, “I can’t say for sure what completely legal work it is you probably do, but I know those bullet holes.” 

 

Hanzo narrowed his eyes.

 

“Anyone taking a shot from  _ that _ gun rarely deserves it, and even more rarely survives the encounter.” He stabbed a finger into the air with authority, not unlike how his daughter had done earlier. “And the woman attached to it prides herself on not leaving any of em alive, so – keep yer eyes peeled.”

 

Hanzo again had to avoid an unfortunate outburst by taking a moment to hold himself still and silent. The people in this city were all terrible judges of character. He deserved far more than a bullet from Widowmaker, but the universe would have to sit on his debt just a little longer – there were still a few other Shimada to sacrifice first.

 

“Thank you for your concern,” was what he eventually settled on saying, “I will certainly keep that in mind.”

 

Torbjorn’s lip curled in a lopsided pout accentuated by his mass of facial hair. He was clearly dissatisfied with the response, but said nothing further. It seemed he knew that was the most reassurance he was going to get. 

 

Hanzo packed up his gear and said his farewells to the Lindholms – and Bastion. Now all he had to worry about was getting any amount of sleep that night in the dead silence with the ghosts of his past lurking just beyond the darkness. He sighed heavily and began his long, looping route back to his dungeon. 

 

When he finally returned, the bleak and dusty quiet was right where he’d left it. He dropped everything in his tent with a muffled thump, then pondered his next problem – the inevitability pressing itself against the back of his brain. The bitter shards of his past were waiting for Hanzo to try to sleep – for the clutter of every other thought to fall away, leaving him open to be devoured. He hardly deserved to sleep well on any given night, all things considered, but there just wasn’t time to let things take their natural course. Though, thinking about avoiding his due suffering like it was just another task on the list made his chest constrict. Hanzo cleared his throat and immediately winced at how loud it sounded in the heavy stillness, but it was distraction enough to set his mind back on what he needed to do. He had tracked targets without sleep on several occasions, but that didn’t mean he preferred it. And with the threat of Widowmaker still very much a factor, he would much rather be rested and alert. 

 

There was at least an easy answer to exhausting himself enough to pass out without the aid of alcohol. Hanzo changed into his armor, got a feel for the repairs, then began going through every stretch and exercise he could think of. He avoided doing too much with his left side, but no other part of him was so lucky. He worked until his muscles seized, then he stretched and started the process over. The quiet became a tool and he tested how his careful steps and whispered movements matched up against it. Before too much of the night had passed, he was panting hard, limbs limber, but begging for rest. 

 

There was one last thing to do, however. He glanced up at one of the orange-yellow tube lights lining the platforms in regular intervals. He rallied his limbs to cooperate and climbed up one of the crate stacks that made up his temporary dwelling. A light was just barely within reach, saving him the trouble of trying to move it while clinging to the wall. Hanzo began carefully trying to twist it, to avoid shattering the glass, but the thing hadn’t budged in who knew how many years and wasn’t about to make it easy. Eventually, after more strain than his muscles really had the patience for, the threads were loosened and Hanzo shoved the end of the tube back a few degrees. An electric humming started up immediately as the light protested the misalignment. Hanzo sighed in mild relief and dropped back down to the floor. Curling up on his bag and his clothes, he listened as the white noise spread through the silence like air filling a lung. That was it – that was all he could do to make sure he got at least a little sleep that night. 

 

It worked – mostly. He was out fairly quickly once he settled in, which was what he’d been most concerned over. He’d made it through a good few hours before his dreams were assailed by glowing green eyes in the darkness. His body moved toward them in slow motion, every second stretched so painfully thin he could feel it pulling at his skin. The motions were the same as they had been a decade prior, though Hanzo knew in his mind where the scene would end. But he was a hostage in his own head, watching, frantic, as his sword pulled up with terrible resolve. The blade made contact with the ghostly shape before him and instantly the shadows blinked away. Hanzo watched as he languidly tore through his brother. In reality, the moment passed so quickly Hanzo had barely been aware of the exact motions, but his imagination was more than happy to improvise. He stared in horror from behind his own eyes at the agonizingly slow pace of the steel sliding across Genji’s flesh. His brother’s face contorted in shock and in a flash it wasn’t the vengeful adult Hanzo was cutting open, but the young boy he’d grown up with. _ How could you? Why didn’t you stop them? Why did you allow this? _ Whispered questions flowed out with the blood from the splitting wound. The answer to each of them was the same – he was a monster. Irredeemable, unclean, and pathetic in all the ways one could be. Retribution for his brother was the only thing he had now, and he wouldn’t stop until it was complete. 

 

Time halted around him. Drops of red hung still in the air. Genji’s eyes were on him, hard and unblinking. He wanted Hanzo to say it out loud – to tell him what he was willing to do to put his little brother’s soul to rest. He felt the warmth of tears wash down his face, but his vision never blurred. His jaw loosened, but his throat was parched to cracking.

 

He had only just begun forcing out the words when Genji’s face changed again. His mouth splintered into fangs and opened inhumanly wide. Clawed fingers from too many arms latched onto Hanzo’s and yanked him violently into the jagged blue maw. 

 

He snapped awake instantly, his arm tingling and an electric buzz ringing in his ears. The air around him seemed to undulate as he shook off the disorientation. Without thinking, he dragged himself up off the floor and stumbled out of the tent. It felt too small and decidedly too dark. He leaned heavily against a pillar of crates as he slowly worked the haze from his mind. Outside the cover of the tarp it wasn’t much brighter, but it was the best he had at the moment. He glanced up at the subtly flickering tube light he’d damaged earlier. It was still humming, though the reverberations in his head had died down. Hanzo sighed and raked a hand down his face. He had no idea what time it was, but it didn’t matter. What sleep he’d gotten was more than he could have hoped for, there was no point in trying for more. He finished collecting himself and got to work.

 

The sun still hadn’t risen by the time Hanzo was back in the thick of Gibraltar. That of course also meant there were hours before he had a target to follow, but he’d gotten himself into enough trouble trying to leisurely kill time lately. There would be no mistakes today, he wouldn’t even afford himself the relative luxury of hot food or coffee. Hanzo went directly to the rooftop of the chauffeur service and planted himself there. He busied himself with a protein bar, caffeine pill, and a map of the city to further commit to memory.

 

Eventually, employees started showing up, and Hanzo finally had something to track. He watched and waited. His quarry would show up at some point during business hours, Hanzo just didn’t know exactly when. The sun rose, and Hanzo whittled the day away stalking mechanics and bored drivers. His thoughts tried to drift back toward the darkness over and over, each time he had to scatter them with some sort of distraction. By the time the afternoon was beginning to pass, Hanzo had painstakingly documented all the habits and mannerisms of each of the staff that made regular appearances outside. 

 

Finally,  _ finally _ the car arrived. He stared down the numbers on the license plate, confirmed they matched, and his mood was instantly lifted. The jumpsuit was unfurled over his armor, bow safely hidden, and he crept down the side of the shop. It was fortunate after all that he’d spent so much time studying the patterns of the employees. He slotted into the minutia of the service area with ease, carefully skirting the edges of their awareness. He still needed to move quickly – the longer he lingered, the more likely it was someone would notice a new face. Hanzo mimicked the body language of the mechanics as he strategically turned away from any casual glances. The car the Shimada had been using was due for detailing and soon to be switched out with a fresh one. It was a reasonable system for keeping luxury clients from riding around in their own mess too much, and for shaking the press or anyone else who might be after one vehicle in particular. Which meant it was Hanzo’s last chance to make use of his only lead. 

 

He kept the driver in his periphery as he stepped out and waited off to the side. The new car was pulled through by a technician and the exchange was made. Hanzo grabbed a stray shop towel and walked up to the trunk, giving a show of making a few final touches to the shiny exterior. He committed this new license number to memory as a precaution, but still pulled a tracking pin from his pocket and slipped it under the lip of the wheel well. Then he moved with as much nonchalance as he could muster back outside before anyone could fully register his presence. He picked up his bow from the roof and retreated down an alley and up the side of another building half a block away. 

 

Hanzo followed the pinging dot from the tracker on his phone. Any stop made for more than 15 minutes was noted. He was after the Shimada’s current hideout, but he wasn’t about to exhaust himself running after the driver for hours. He did wander closer to any points the car lingered at for just a bit too long. Thankfully, these all seemed to occur in the same general direction. Evening was creeping in closer as the location marker settled in one spot. Hanzo made his way toward it, only slightly adjusting his path. When it didn’t move for the half hour it took him to get that far across town, he picked up his pace.

 

Hitching rides on the train only got him so far, as the towers of the city gave way to more flat, expansive buildings. Now Hanzo was hopping across work trucks and seriously considering throwing caution to the wind to steal a car. But the looming presence of Overwatch was still putting him off indulging in theft lest his crusade be further complicated over something so basic. 

 

He came within 20 meters of his target on foot and clung to any available shadow. Thankfully, after all his waiting and moderately aimless wandering, the day had dimmed into a gentle blue twilight. The main light source other than a few scattered street lamps were the brightly lit ribbons of clustering highways in the distance. The tracker had led him to a manufacturing and distributing area not unlike where he’d stationed himself in the tunnels. Hanzo supposed it was likely he caught the yakuza in the middle of another warehouse shopping trip, rather than finding their base of operations. It was just as well – maybe he would have a chance to learn what exactly they were up to in Gibraltar. If nothing else, it would give him better insights on what their next moves might be. 

 

He rounded the corner of a stale grey building and took cover behind the shrubbery there. Intermingling with the rows of trailers loitering at the docking stations were a series of very out of place vehicles. The sleek black one he’d been tracking was there, but so were a small fleet of armored SUVs. Hanzo grimaced let out a quiet sigh. Either the Shimada had demanded a ridiculous amount of security this time, or he’d walked into something much bigger than a real estate tour. He wouldn’t be able to engage them like this, but he wasn’t going to leave with nothing. The docking area would be watched. Hanzo pulled back around the corner – he needed an alternate way in. 

 

The roof would have been his first choice, which of course meant they’d probably be looking for him up there. He couldn’t assume they wouldn’t expect him to find them all again. Hanzo back tracked along the wall to a door he’d seen there. It was old and painted over, with a heavy lock sealing an old latch shut. He reached back into his quiver and pulled out an arrow with a smooth, silvery tip. He tapped the end on the wall and saw the mild aura resonating off of it, courtesy of his eye implants. His sonic arrows used the same technology Hamamura castle had installed – if anyone had been on the other side of that wall, their silhouette would have flared up in bright red. But currently, there was nothing. Hanzo bent down and set the arrow flat against the wall, in as discrete a position as possible. Knowing later if the doorway was clear or not would keep him from running into stray enemies when he was ready to leave. He made quick work of the lock, and opened the door as quietly as possible – something he’d had a lot of practice in at this point thanks to the heavy doors of his deathly silent hideout.

 

Once inside, it was easy to tell where everyone was meeting. The warehouse was dark but for the overhead lights blaring over the loading zone. Muffled noise echoed across the high, angular ceiling, though not loud enough for Hanzo to understand what was being done or said. The unused door had been almost completely blocked off by one of many tall racks of boxes and shrink wrapped industrial equipment lined up in orderly rows. Hanzo was grateful for the cover as he carefully snuck inside. 

 

He took stock of his surroundings before daring to get too close to his targets. Lining the edge of the ceiling was a bulky HVAC system supported by a web of metal – a perfect spot for a sniper to get as many clear sightlines as possible. He would have to keep an eye on it. Hanzo instinctively ducked down lower when he caught sight of someone walking into view, patrolling in the distance. He peered closer from between the gaps in the shelving. The figure was walking casually, assault rifle in hand, wearing heavy grey armor with a bright red helmet obscuring any facial features. 

 

Well. At least he had visual confirmation that Talon was definitely here. Hanzo weaved his way through the storage racks, doing his best to avoid any obvious lines of sight for either snipers or meandering troopers. He didn’t appreciate operating so low to the ground, but there wasn’t much else to be done about it. He settled himself behind a forklift with a tower of unused palettes stacked up behind him. 

 

“This would suit your needs perfectly well.” a man said, as a large, metal crate was brought around on a clearly strained hover dolly.

 

Hanzo was still far enough away that he had to strain to hear them, but he did recognize that voice from the first warehouse he’d tracked them to. Management, obviously, but he had done enough double checking on his phone that night to convince Hanzo he only had limited authority. Either way, his task was important enough to warrant quite the entourage. Crowding around a thick work table was a mix of Shimada, Talon, and various other characters he didn’t recognize. They seemed professional enough, but without armor they clearly weren’t Talon, and the shape and color of the tattoos he could make out spoke to any kind of gang  _ but _ yakuza. Perhaps the bulk of the clan’s extra security was built on freelancers, not Talon’s private army. It made sense, in hindsight. Hanzo had heard that most of Talon’s forces were both genetically  _ and  _ cybernetically modified – it was possible they would just stick out too much when the Shimada grunts went out drinking. 

 

An imposing figure in a white helmet and red shoulder guard stepped up to the crate, taking out a handheld device and scanning the contents. 

 

“Affirmative. Good work, the boss will be pleased.” he said after a pause. 

 

“There is much we can accomplish even now. Just imagine what we’ll be able to do in the future.” Shimada management seemed overly proud of what amounted to a pat on the head.

 

Hanzo frowned behind his mask. Was all this just to make a sale? Were they really just trying to impress Talon? And what did the mother of all mercenary bands want with a weakened Shimada clan? Surely there were other organizations more worthy of all the resources they were dedicating to his former family. 

 

It didn’t make sense. Hanzo eyed the cargo as the armored grunts began pushing it back toward the dock. Perhaps if he knew what was inside it, some part of this situation would be put into focus. In any case, his next move would be following the Shimada to wherever they were roosting and, ideally, getting the information straight from them – willingly or otherwise. 

 

The scream of one of the sectional steel doors being ploughed through instantly caught everyone’s attention. Literally rocketing through it was the massive, armor plated shell of Balderich. Hanzo took a moment to be shocked at the sudden upheaval of events, but the Talon soldiers, as well as the freelancers, were quick to start shooting. The elaborately decorated golden behemoth seemed unphased by the hail of bullets and turned defiantly once his momentum slowed.

 

“Bring it on, I LIVE for this!” he boomed through his winged helm and swung a colossal hammer around at the first rush of troopers that ran toward him. The Talon agent who’d confirmed the merchandise hefted up a huge shotgun from the table, the end of it glowing with promised violence. 

 

Hanzo clenched his fists as anger gripped his lungs. Once  _ again _ he had fumbled into some heroic nonsense but not only  _ that _ , this man was  _ actively ruining everything _ . The Shimada might have fallen far, but they were still a lineage born of shinobi – if the situation escalated too far, they would fade into the shadows. There was no telling how deep underground they’d go to avoid Overwatch, of all things, and what they might abandon in order to do so. Hanzo shut his eyes for a brief second to breathe and regain his composure. It wasn’t a loss yet – he just needed to capture one of them before they escaped. He turned from the chaos being thrown around at the dock, then stilled immediately. A shadow rose over the ventilation with a small, red light peeking out from its head. 

 

He had been right – there was a sniper. Hanzo looked back at Balderich. All that metal would give way eventually, and there wasn’t much a hammer the size of a man could do against an enemy at range. 

 

“Foolish.” he whispered to himself. Assault rifles all around him, a high powered shotgun about to fire, and a sniper trained on his head. Yet he was still laughing like it was nothing. Hanzo shook his head. All the heroes that inhabited this city, and Balderich burst into a Talon meeting alone –

 

No. His eyes narrowed. This was the sort of grandstanding a hero living off their own arrogance would pull. He knew  _ those _ kinds of heroes. He’d occasionally  _ fought _ those kids of heroes. Overwatch supers had been proving to be quite different in just the sort moments he’d seen them. 

 

Sure enough, as every firearm in the room let loose on Balderich, the warbling sound of pure energy billowed out and an orb formed around him. A faintly tinted bubble absorbed the damage, and Balderich let out a hearty laugh.

 

“Haha! Got you!”

 

A second large body pushed past the mangled door, flecks of energy glinting across her white and fuschia armor. Hanzo wasn’t familiar with this hero. She was a tall, imposing figure with a gold faceplate and vibrant blue mohawk tufting out the top of her helmet. Another shield formed around her as she lobbed in black-purple balls of plasma from a partical canon at least as big as Balderich’s hammer. Despite the size, she wielded it with ease, and scattered the freelancers while the Talon soldiers split into two groups. 

 

“Cyberian! You’ve come to join the party!” Balderich’s good humor was completely unphased, but at least now Hanzo knew the other hero’s name.

 

A familiar beam tethered to Balderich as Mercy darted in from the now gaping doorway. She crowded behind him, then shot upward, dodging gunfire, but receiving a protective bubble from Cyberian nonetheless. She danced gracefully between the two as their enemies began to reengage. 

 

“Don’t hold back!” Cyberian’s Russian accent had a cockiness to it, and Hanzo realized that she wasn’t speaking to her comrades, but her opponents. 

 

The Talon groups began a flank, while the others took cover behind crates and machinery. Balderich was all too enthused to drive his hammer through anything he could get close to, and the more damage absorbed by Cyberian’s shields, the more intensely she glowed. A steady beam flowed continuously from her canon, and the slow build of her energy made it burn that much hotter. They were noticeably harder on the well armored and otherwise augmented Talon operatives, but seemingly for good reason. Several would take direct hits, get knocked back, but manage to rejoin the struggle anyway.

 

It made their numbers advantage that much worse. It was only three heroes against twenty, half of which wouldn’t stay down. Really only two heroes, if the fact Mercy was busy keeping the others healthy and strong was taken into consideration. And there was still the sniper to consider. Hanzo looked back at where he’d seen the figure last, but by now, they had moved. Mercy had none of the thick armor of the others, but flying around as she was, she would be a difficult target to hit regardless. If the sniper he’d seen had been Widowmaker, however, the danger was still very real. Not that it would matter if they were overtaken by superior numbers first. The freelancers were clearly not up to the challenge, but they were good enough as a distraction for Talon to move into position.

 

Hanzo pulled the bow from his back. The Shimada were still in the fight, but they were phasing out to the fringes. Trying to be involved to look good for their peers, but having every intention of bailing at the first sign of impending loss – something Hanzo was certain now was coming.

 

Overwatch was as much a cohesive mass as Talon, and it was time Hanzo regarded them as such. This whole scene was a plan in motion, and not the first time he’d witnessed them letting their foes hang themselves with their own misconceptions. The trio going up against bad odds were just one half of a vise about to wrench shut. Hanzo moved carefully away from his hiding place and back toward the shelving structures. The Shimada would run and he’d need to be between them and the next best exit. 

 

The crack of a rifle and the sharp pinging of metal-on-metal sounded out and had him ducking down again.

 

“Argh! Fight me toe-to-toe, you  _ coward _ !” Balderich bellowed from behind him – the sniper must have landed a good shot on the easiest target.

 

Hanzo glanced back in time to see the weighted end of the hammer wash over in flames as Balderich swung up in the direction the shot sounded out from. An arc of fire flew through the air, lighting the dim storage area as it passed. Hanzo was admittedly a little shocked – apparently a man with a giant hammer  _ could _ attack a sniper in the distance. The blaze brushed past the top corner of the rack he was currently hiding behind, but carried on until striking the wall with an angry crackle. He doubted very much it hit the target, but perhaps they would at least be deterred. 

 

A dusting of light debris drifted onto Hanzo’s head, pulling his eyes back up again. The shelving caught by the flames was charred, the metal of it cringing under the weight of the cargo it carried. Hanzo had seconds to leap out from under it as the edge buckled and the heavy machine parts caused the whole structure to lean back and topple. It knocked with a thud into the rack behind it, the contents of the shelves smashing hard into the concrete floor. The force tilted the other, and a domino effect brought six of them crashing down before one was laden enough to keep upright. Half of the warehouse was a disaster zone of boxes, parts, and racks propped up at random angles. The cacophony of the collapse had rivaled the gunfire, but Hanzo still heard the sound of a rocket launcher going off. 

 

Whirling stripes of blue flew in from Hanzo’s right and struck the shotgun wielding enforcer. He clearly felt their impact, but remained on his feet. The rockets were followed up by a flurry of motion and the distinctive stacado of pulse munitions. Balderich and Cyberian took full advantage of the brief distraction and barreled through the cluster of Talon troops. Splitting themselves up was proving to be a liability now, as the heroes quickly collapsed on the group standing between them. Streaks of light paired with quick bursts of pistol fire whipped around the Talon soldiers. Enhancements and armor were apparently reaching their limits as some of the troopers stopped getting back up once they were knocked over. Balderich charged forward, propelled by a fire roaring at his back, and slammed into the enforcer. He carried him far into the wreckage that was once the storage space, until he slammed into a pile of debris. The fight moved with him, into the dark side of the warehouse – the Talon group in the back pushed Cyberian and Mercy, and Cyberian and Mercy pushed the Shimada and their cohorts. 

 

All toward Hanzo, whose cover was in a mangled heap on the floor. He scowled.

 

Fine. 

 

Arrows were nocked and fired in quick succession, lancing the legs of the two front most freelancers in the posse. They fell forward, causing one more to trip over them. The Shimada body guards behind them caught one look at their injuries and shoved their manager to the side. The rest of their group staggered a bit in confusion, but followed a few steps behind the now very hurried yakuza. The imposing force of Cyberian at their backs was lessened as she branched off to try and keep the remaining Talon members from regrouping. Mercy was now a brilliant firefly in the relative darkness, swooping between her various allies. 

 

Hanzo kneeled against the side of a broken crate. It was hardly cover, but all he was hoping for at this point was to be less noticeable than the chaos going on around them. Another arrow fired and ricocheted off the ground just in front of the guards. They stopped short and turned again, their path now taking them right where Hanzo wanted them to go. 

 

He moved to intercept – and a bullet blew a hole in the wood crate where his torso had just been. Panic spiked in his chest and he dove into the narrow triangle of space created from a fallen shelving tower being propped up against another. A second shot hit the ground just outside. He honestly did not expect the sniper would consider him a higher value target even if he were spotted.  

 

Unless – unless he’d been mistaken for being part of Overwatch.

 

Hanzo suppressed a growl and tightened the grip on his bow. He didn’t have time to curse their entire enterprise, he had a bureaucrat to capture. He ventured a peek out of the destroyed racks. The Shimada were still on their way, pausing to duck down where possible, heads on swivels trying to spot him. The guards were steering their boss around by the shoulders and crowding around as human shields. They weren’t wrong to do so, Hanzo wanted the manager – he’d have the most information. But the window for attack was closing. Hanzo pushed his bow out with the limited space he had and fired a sonic arrow into the ventilation shafts above him. Nothing lit up. 

 

He waited for the group to pass between himself and the sniper’s last angle – then stabbed the first calf he saw with an arrow. A guard dropped to the ground, wailing, and he rolled out from hiding, kicking the dropped firearm out of reach. The other bodyguard was punched in the throat with the full force of Hanzo’s body rising up. The man staggered back and crumpled. Hanzo made a grab for the manager, but a freelancer stuttered to a stop nearby and took aim with a pistol. Hanzo side stepped and brought his bow around in both hands, cracking the end of it against the knuckles of the gunman. His grip broke and the gun clattered to the floor. The man cried out as the opposite end of the bow flipped back around and nailed him in the side of the head. The rest of the posse was catching up and Hanzo’s actual target had taken a sharp about face, back toward the docks. 

 

Hanzo needed to keep moving, lest the sniper get a bead on him, so he crouched, ready to lunge at the manager. A click came from behind him and he quickly switched gears, rolling to the side. The shot went wide, trying to track him, but he slid himself behind a discarded hunk of machinery. Hanzo tisked – the guard he stabbed in the leg must have picked up the gun of the man he’d just disarmed. The two meter thick steel contraption would be enough to shield against the pistol, but would do little to protect him from the threat above. Though there hadn’t been another attempt by the sniper and he wasn’t sure where they were taking aim from anymore. Not far away, the manager had pulled the rest of his entourage back with him, opting to make a break for the car outside.

 

Hanzo clenched his teeth – he could not allow them to escape. 

 

He was about to whip around and deal with the downed guard when a clink and a white hot flash of light went off behind his cover. Hanzo peered over, face pinched in confusion, as he heard the gutteral sound of a man being punched out. 

 

Standing over a now motionless Shimada, was a tall man in a black suit and a blue scarf. 

 

“Howdy.” Mystery Man tipped his hat at him.

 

Hanzo felt an irrational anger rise up in his chest and shake in his skin. 

 

“What are  _ you _ doing here!?” it wasn’t really a question, but Hanzo just needed to protest –  _ something  _ about this latest infuriating turn of events. 

 

“Well I just happened upon this lovely little thing and thought I’d return it to the nice gentleman who dropped it.” Mystery Man carefully reached under his caplet and pulled out – a sonic arrow?

 

When? How?

 

Hanzo’s eyes went wide and flicked to the door he’d entered through – the arrow he’d left there. His face sunk into a glare as it slowly settled back on the hero. Mystery Man was unperturbed. He lightly tossed the arrow up, catching it by the point and holding the end out to Hanzo.

 

A flicker of red dropped into Hanzo’s periphery, just to the left of Mystery Man’s head. The arrow he’d shot into the vents above revealed the repositioning sniper like a spotlight. She was small, dressed in a long coat with a silvery helmet covering her face. 

 

It wasn’t Widowmaker after all. Well then. That was much less nerve wracking.

 

Hanzo yanked the fletching from the hero, pulled it immediately against the bow string, and shot up at the sniper before she had a chance to take aim. The arrow stuck into her shoulder and the rifle she was carrying slipped out and tumbled to the ground below. 

 

Mystery Man started a fraction to the side, glanced back at the groaning sniper, then stared in subtle shock at Hanzo. Ah, that was right – in all the times their paths crossed, the hero had never really seen him in action. Hanzo allowed himself the smug raising of an eyebrow before bolting off to run down his real prey. 

 

Everyone had apparently decided to retreat by the time Hanzo was able to break out into a full run. What was left of Talon was scattered, laying down cover fire to try and escape the heroes. The Overwatch side of things weren’t wholly without wear, it seemed. Mercy was on the ground now, and Balderich had held back his hammer in favor of a massive rectangular barrier projecting from his arm. 

Hanzo didn’t know where the rest of them were, but it didn’t matter. He put arrows through two more of the freelancers before the rest made it outside. A Talon trooper ran over toward the same exit, saw Hanzo, and lifted his rifle. Hanzo shot an arrow in the soft junction between armor plating under his arm, the rifle dipped, and he ran past him. The resonant banging of a high caliber round behind him told Hanzo that Mystery Man must have been following after, because of course he was. 

 

He burst through the doorway onto a platform flanked by semi trailers lined up at the dock. The dark haired head of his target had just ducked into the car, parked at an angle down the lot in front of him. There was a huge commotion all around, as more guns fired at unseen enemies and everyone else tried to get out. Hanzo ignored them, took a moment to focus, and let loose an arrow. 

 

It lodged into the wheel well above the left front hover pad just as the driver hit the accelerator. The car hitched up, but cut immediately to the side, dragged down by the deadened pad. It fishtailed out and slammed into the side of one of the SUVs. The manager and a freelancer stumbled out of the backseat and crouched behind the car doors to fire against Hanzo. He was ready to run over and drag that troublesome coward across the pavement by his hair, but he would not get the chance.

 

“Ogon' po gotovnosti!”

 

A black, featureless orb was hurled into the middle of the frantic mess. On impact, it bloomed into a swirling miasma of energy. Everyone left trying to flee was locked up in its core as Cyberian and the two other heroes Hanzo hadn’t yet caught sight of stepped into view. He registered only the barest details, one a white haired man, the other a petite brunette woman – just enough to know he’d seen their images before. But he didn’t care to try and remember their names. Watching the heroes of Overwatch converge on the man he’d worked so hard to track down made Hanzo feel instantly tired. A triumphant display of weeks of wasted effort. 

 

A footstep scraped the concrete behind him and Hanzo snapped to it, bow raised and arrow ready. Mystery Man stood there, posture lax, but his revolver was still in his hand. 

 

“We just can’t seem to stay outta each other’s way, huh?”

 

Hanzo was taken aback by the immensity of the understatement.

 

“I told you to stay out of it.” he gritted out, the fury rising in him again. Mystery Man tilted his head.

 

“Yeah, also implied you were gonna shoot me if it so happened I showed up anyway.” he twirled his gun around on his finger and made a show of holstering it. “But I’ll be a bettin man tonight and say that I don’t think you’re gonna.”

 

Hanzo’s brows screwed together in complete bewilderment. 

 

“Who–?” he began, but found he didn’t really know what he was asking. He just didn’t understand what this man was thinking. The last time they met, he seemed perfectly willing to shoot him, why the change? It wasn’t really because Hanzo had been shooting down Talon soldiers, was it? That really wasn’t much to base a character judgement on, they were in his way too.

 

Mystery Man only shrugged, despite Hanzo’s internal debating, “Who knows? It’s a  _ mystery _ .” he emphasized with a ripple of his fingers. 

 

Hanzo’s shoulders sagged in exaggerated exasperation because he  _ needed _ the hero to really see it. 

 

“Listen,” Mystery Man said with a surprising amount of gravity, “We ain’t tryin to steal nothin from you. I told you before, only reason we keep runnin into each other is cause our respective enemies are collaboratin. You know these Shimada guys, we know Talon. Makes sense for us to be collaboratin also, don’t ya think?”

 

No, he didn’t. And Overwatch  _ was _ stealing from him. The arrest of a mid level bureaucrat would make whatever higher ranked officer he came in with skittish. Any yakuza still here would be bailing out of the city or burrowing deep into obscurity the second they heard the news – which may have already happened. Hanzo set his jaw and tamped down on the swell of frustration crawling up his throat. He didn’t have the first idea of how he could salvage this weeks long debacle – he needed time to think. Mystery Man was still watching him expectantly, but Hanzo didn’t trust he’d be able to hold back whatever resentful outburst might fall out of his mouth. So he said nothing. 

 

To add further insult to injury, Hanzo would have to once again be the first to back down from a stand off with him. Granted, this one felt very oddly different from their last, but he was beyond not having the time or patience to try to stare down Mystery Man. Five other heroes were at his back, and he didn’t need to wait around for them to start asking questions or attempting arrests. 

 

The string of his bow went slack, the arrow returned to his quiver, and Hanzo scaled up the side of the trailer, not caring if he was being curiously watched the whole time.


	7. Chapter 7

Despite being settled in the exact middle of Gibraltar, the Overwatch Headquarters felt convincingly inaccessible. High metal railings were the first, somewhat superficial barrier, beyond which was a decent stretch of flat grass. The grounds were meticulously manicured and undoubtedly ferociously monitored. Roughly 20 meters in, the landscaping met with thick steel walls that at least made an attempt at looking decorative and friendly. Not much could be seen of the facility beyond that, and there weren’t any tall enough buildings nearby to try to sneak a glance from above. Considering they went so far as to blot out their overhead images in public access maps, it would be safe to assume they’d be wary of surveillance drones. For normal entry, there were two apparent doors at the North and South of the walls, both under very heavy and very obvious guard – which likely meant there was an abundance of  _ unseen  _ security measures Overwatch wanted potential threats to be too distracted to notice. Hidden entrances  _ had _ to be somewhere. The tracker Hanzo had planted on the car was brought near enough to the building before being found and, presumably, destroyed. Prisoners, confiscated cars, and flamboyant supers would not have been brought in through the public facing entrances. 

 

The visitors center to the side of the North entrance was woefully lacking in any  _ useful _ information, not that Hanzo had really expected much. The most it was currently offering was a means to get a closer look at the door without being painfully obvious about it. Between stealing glances at the security and personnel, Hanzo casually browsed the various commemorative mugs and hero themed pins available. There was a wall with a summarized history of the organization plastered over it, but it wasn’t anything most people wouldn’t already know. Overwatch was originally just a small coalition of supers, scientists, and the like, joining forces to finally put a stop to the rogue AI that had driven the omnics crazy. After the crisis was finally over, the powers involved in Overwatch’s creation saw an opportunity for what it was. The team was kept together and exponentially expanded until it had grown into the walled off beast that lay before him. 

 

The huge, impenetrable monstrosity, in whose belly lay Hanzo’s only decent leads. He pretended to be offended by an overpriced t-shirt just to give himself an excuse to scowl. Without any low level grunts to question, he had no idea where any of the current Shimada leaders were hiding, or if there was even anything worth staying in Gibraltar for. There was his list of stops the car made before going to the warehouse, but he’d spent the remainder of the night and most of that morning running those down. Unsurprisingly, he turned up nothing. The moment word got out about the raid, anything remotely incriminating would have been stashed or destroyed. 

 

If he knew what they had been delivering to Talon, that would at least give him something to work with. Tracking down hints of where to find high ranking members of the clan had been getting so much harder lately. Now Overwatch had everything he’d worked for locked up in a fortress even he wouldn’t be brazen enough to try to crack on his own. He took a few long and steadying breaths to cool the angry burn rising in his chest. He really should just cut his losses and start over, but he couldn’t help stubbornly clinging to the idea that the situation might be somehow salvageable. 

 

For a moment, he almost wished he’d at least written down Mystery Man’s number before throwing his card back at him. He could have called and made demands – or at least chewed the man’s ear off for stealing his leads.

 

A screen hung over a rack of pamphlets flickered from the looping introduction video to a news conference. Hanzo recognized the man at the podium immediately as Commander Jack Morrison. A younger, blonder version of his now scarred and weathered face was printed on a large amount of merchandise, but he still wore the same stately blue coat and armor. He had been the leader of the Overwatch supers for decades, all the way back to just after the Omnic Crisis ended. They had been mostly soldiers back then and it hadn’t yet become the norm to try for a costume and secret identity. These days, Hanzo would be hard pressed to find a single soul in Gibraltar who didn’t know that man’s whole life story.

 

The price one paid for saving the world, he supposed.

 

Hanzo gave only passive attention to the actual substance of the conference. Morrison appeared to be doing some reassuring for the masses. Apparently there had been an uptick in recent high profile lawbreaking and with it came more hero activity. Concerns had been raised over the usual bullet points, bystanders, collateral damage, etc. The Commander handled the press quite well, though it was to be expected given how much experience he surely had. The camera switched to a wider view showing the reporters asking questions. The outdoor pavillion was lined with perfectly rounded shrubs and rows of seating facing a podium standing atop a handful of stairs. Part of the backdrop caught Hanzo’s eye and he glanced out the window then back at the screen. The same decoratively plated steel walls that surrounded the facility were looming at the edges of the conference. The screen shifted back to a full frame of Jack Morrison dutifully regarding the crowd. Hanzo examined it closely, then made his way out of the visitor’s center. 

 

It was a mild afternoon and the pavilion had been uncovered. Hanzo followed along the outer fencing looking for the approximate angle at which the sun had been casting shadows over the Commander’s face. Once in the general area, he found he needn’t have bothered to do the math. A flock of satellite and production vans from various news channels had appeared sometime since he’d last scouted the perimeter of the base. The reporters couldn’t have gone in through the North entrance, Hanzo had been standing right there. But they were parked an unreasonable walking distance from the Southern door. Had there been a separate escort? Perhaps a hidden gate somewhere Hanzo simply hadn’t noticed. He shook his head and tried to keep focus. The ghost of an idea was forming in his mind. The press would be significantly easier to infiltrate than a paramilitary base – but doing so would mean the very real danger of ending up on the news himself. Hanzo wasn’t sure if his half formed thought had the makings of a decent plan, but the itch to try  _ something _ was too difficult to resist.

 

He moved closer to the bulky assortment of vehicles, trying his best to look like he belonged there. Thankfully, anyone left behind was too preoccupied with managing the broadcasting to notice him past the thick headphones and multitude of holo projections. Hanzo got a bit bolder and slid up next to one of the vans. He peered inside the driver’s side window, wondering if he should try to find an ID to swipe just in case. If he did decide to try to get in with the reporters, this would be a golden opportunity to collect something that would make that much easier.

 

He noticed the curl of smoke too late as a man with a cigar leaned out from the back of the van, arms wide in a stretch. Hanzo adjusted his posture in a blink. There wasn’t time to hide without being noticed, so he adopted the casual bearing of a nosy tourist. A conversation with a network employee could be potentially as useful as anything he might be able to steal. 

 

The man froze when he saw him, and Hanzo realized his current gamble might not be worth it. Jesse McCree, the reporter from the botched jewelry store heist, had been taking a smoke break against the back of the van. Hanzo waited to see if he would ask him what he was doing there or insist he get away from the equipment – anything to inform how to react to have the best chance at getting any information. But McCree remained stock still, staring at him, arms stuck out in mid-stretch. The awkward moment lasted a few seconds too long and Hanzo felt his head tilt to one side as his brows pulled together in confusion. McCree finally seemed to snap out of – whatever that was, and his arms jerked clumsily to his sides. He took the cigar from his mouth and cleared his throat.

 

“Hey there, uh, funny runnin into you here.” 

 

Hanzo couldn’t help the way his eyes narrowed, but before he had a chance to say anything, McCree continued.

 

“Sorry we parted on not so great terms last time.” 

 

McCree was slowly working his way back into the easy confidence he’d had when he stopped Hanzo on the street, but something was off. Granted, he had inadvertently snuck up on the reporter, but McCree’s first question should have been why Hanzo was even there. He couldn’t possibly have been so disturbed by Hanzo’s previous outburst that he’d react so strangely to seeing him now. Hanzo glanced briefly to the side to get his expression in order before facing him again. He’d find out nothing unless he started talking. 

 

“I apologize for being so – curt.” he offered. “I was not in the best mood for questioning, I suppose.”

 

McCree quirked an eyebrow and resettled his weight to one side. His eyes refocused on Hanzo with a concentrated scrutiny that sent a sense of wrongness crawling up his spine. Somehow, it felt familiar.

 

“You said you were a reporter, correct? Why are you out here and not in with the rest of them?” He had to put effort into not sounding as suspicious as he was.

 

“Oh no, I’m not writin today, just here to carry the bags and look pretty.” McCree smiled, casually leaning his arm against the van, but his eyes remained sharp. Whatever charm he was trying to employ, Hanzo wasn’t buying it. He felt himself tensing, unable to keep his body locked in the loose posture of an innocent bystander. McCree’s careful gaze followed the shifting line of his shoulders, but otherwise he plainly pretended not to notice. 

 

“So what brings you here?” he asked, finally. “All the excitement the other day get you jonesin to see more supers?” He gave a small flourish with his prosthetic hand.

 

“Not particularly.” Hanzo couldn’t help the sarcastic lilt to his voice. McCree’s facade, whatever its purpose, wasn’t working, and Hanzo was rapidly losing the motivation to bother with his own. “You’re awfully inquisitive for someone not here for a story.” It came out as more of an accusation than he meant it to, but the buzzing in his skull was draining his patience.

 

The situation was absolutely not what it seemed, but Hanzo couldn’t quite nail down  _ why _ .

 

“What can I say,” McCree shrugged, “can’t help but chase a good  _ mystery _ .” he rippled his fingers through the air.

 

Hanzo’s stomach dropped. 

 

Every gesture, the way the man carried himself, even that _goddamn_ _obvious_ accent slammed into context.

 

Jesse McCree was Mystery Man. 

 

But it – McCree’s metal arm? Hanzo sped through his remembered images from their encounters and – of course. The capelet covered his left side and Mystery Man always wore gloves. Perhaps the prosthetic was an easier thing to hide in costume than in normal life. 

 

Hanzo realized he’d frozen in much the same way McCree had when he first approached, and it was his turn to stare in awkward silence. His mental stalling would have been obvious, but again, McCree wasn’t acknowledging it. 

 

Another revelation.

 

Jesse McCree – Mystery Man –  _ knew _ that Hanzo was the archer Overwatch had been stealing from. Every word McCree had said to him as a civilian flipped through Hanzo’s mind in a new light. It would certainly explain his behavior. Hanzo had thought himself that Mystery Man was distressingly observant, of course he would figure it out. 

 

Well, now they both knew, and they both knew it. He recollected his thoughts and looked back at McCree with equal focus. His casual demeanor belied the ready angles of his body. He didn’t know how Hanzo would react and was prepared to fight if he had to. But there was no need. Even if Mystery Man knew his face, he had next to nothing else. Hanzo now had a name, a face, and a workplace – two workplaces if Overwatch could be counted. 

 

There was nothing else that needed to be said. Being at risk of exposure, out in the open and surrounded by news vans, McCree would tell him nothing he could use. Hanzo was also not likely to get away with stealing anything, since McCree knew from the heist nonsense that he didn’t want any extra attention. He decided to end their stalemate by slowly turning away from McCree, keeping his eyes on him as long as possible. It would be the third time he’d put his back to the hero, but this one didn’t feel like a concession. Hanzo held all the cards, this just happened to not be the best place to make use of them. 

 

The situation had managed to play out better than if he tried to pass as a station employee. A cautious vindication crept into the back of his mind and his hands itched to get to work. 

 

“You know,” McCree called after him.

 

Hanzo stopped short and glanced back, ready to spring to cover if it turned out his assumptions about him were misplaced – but McCree hadn’t moved.

 

“I never did get a ‘thank you’ for helpin you out.” he said cooly.

 

Hanzo scoffed, and continued forward.

 

The schedule for the remainder of his day was set. There was research to be done.

 

Hanzo left the fringes of the Overwatch Headquarters and retreated back across town. It was up in the air whether or not McCree would send any supers out to find him. The man hadn’t alerted them to his presence in either of the two instances he would have had ample opportunity to do so. 

 

Hanzo frowned. There was perhaps more than just a biotic emitter he had Mystery Man to thank for. 

 

He frowned harder. The hero would receive a thank you once he gave Hanzo an apology for his hand in spoiling all his hard work. 

 

Hanzo followed a muddled route back to the semi-upscale neighborhood where he’d found his police station satellites. If McCree had surmised by now that Hanzo preferred travelling across rooftops, that’s where any other heroes would be looking for him. It wasn’t new information for the yakuza he’d been hunting for a decade, but none of them could fly. He dipped into a cafe, bought a large coffee, and planted himself in a small table slotted into a corner. The sign outside was decorated with different cutsey interpretations of heroes than the last time he passed it, and the menu featured a few colorful, Overwatch themed drinks. If he were going to research specific supers, it was unlikely anyone here would find such a thing suspicious. 

 

‘Mystery Man’ seemed to not be just a ridiculous moniker, but an overall theme for how he operated. There was the obvious contrast between his dark suit and the overall vibrancy of his peers, but that could have been as much a gimmick as anything. Of the various Overwatch superheroes, he probably had the fewest results in a search for articles. He was known about, of course, it was hard to be involved in a major operation with a team of supers and not be spotted at some point. But whereas most of the heroes had their own profiles and power rankings, Mystery Man was – a mystery. 

 

Hanzo rolled his eyes and took a swig of his coffee, trying to burn away the sound of that word coming out in McCree’s melodramatic inflection. 

 

He seemed to cling to the fringes, flanking both targets and the press while his colleagues filled the spotlight. Hanzo had to admit, it certainly seemed like a much more reasonable approach to the superhero game. He couldn’t escape being caught in the frame of a photo once in a while, but comparatively they were remarkably few and far between. At most there would be a few anecdotes published recounting some heroic deed. The stories always reflected a general sense of skill, but Hanzo still wasn’t sure what qualified him as a superhero. The thought suddenly felt dangerous. Only some supers had powers that manifested physically – others might never be noticed. Hanzo only took minimal solace in that, given their interactions, Mystery Man was unlikely to be a mind reader. 

 

It was time for another approach. He cleared his histories, then began a new search for Jesse McCree. The website for a local news network had him listed as a freelance reporter on a number of articles, and he had co writing or research credits on several others. There wasn’t much rhyme or reason to his publishing schedule, something which made perfect sense considering his  _ real _ employer. Hanzo dug a little deeper, trying to craft a clear picture of the man he was dealing with. 

 

Unsurprisingly, McCree had made sparse any up-to-date public information. Hanzo had to do a lot of creative searching to find an address. The hero may have been careful, but the landlord of his apartment complex was a little less so.

 

Hanzo decided to see if there were any other administrative slip ups he could find, perhaps a name filled in on a subscription or gym membership. But there was an odd lack of – everything. The more he looked into who McCree was as a man, the more Hanzo realized that prior to his moving into his building and getting his reporting job – he functionally didn’t exist. He tapped his finger on the table. Sifting through any darker online back channels on an insecure network was out of the question, he’d have to make do with what he had at the moment. 

 

He set the date ranges back and looked again, and again, going back farther and farther until something credible hit. Hanzo narrowed his eyes at the screen. Among the results was a 20 year old article on rising crime rates near Santa Fe. McCree’s name was absent from the body of the text – but not the metadata. Interesting. Someone had tried to scrub his history from public record, but hadn’t been quite thorough enough. 

 

Hanzo put his phone down and rubbed at his beard. The energy he’d had upon learning Mystery Man’s identity was starting to stagnate. He was butting up against a superhero – an  _ Overwatch _ superhero – he was hoping to have more of a baseline than this. He glanced outside then checked the time – he’d been running out of daylight in a few hours. 

 

He sighed.

 

There had already been too much time between him learning the information and him acting on it. He wouldn’t know if having the true name of a super would be helpful or not unless he went out and did something with it. Hanzo stood and left the cafe to go change.

 

Getting to McCree’s neighborhood afterward took a bit longer than Hanzo would have preferred. There was still the chance police or superheroes would be on the lookout for him, specifically, so he had to be especially on guard in where he went and how he moved. It got easier once he began sneaking through a few somewhat familiar buildings. The Overwatch Headquarters weren’t that far from his current target, in fact, he’d actually unwittingly passed it earlier when he had been leaving the area. 

 

The sun was low enough now to provide some shade cover, but there was still an abundance of warm light filtering in between the architecture. Hanzo quickly and quietly hopped a dilapidated wooden fence splitting off one complex’s residential parking from another’s. Past the cramped lot and tennent storage, down the alley and across the street, was Mystery Man’s home address. The building was older, but maintained well enough. The grey stone accents on the door and windows were worn down to soft edges, but the red bricks looked to be in good condition. Hanzo had no way of knowing if McCree had returned home or not – or if he even would, now that he knew Hanzo was aware of his alter ego. But there was certainly nothing else for him to do right then, so Hanzo settled in, crouched behind the corner of the lot, for an evening of staring at an apartment door. 

 

He was aware that McCree might try to disguise himself, so he watched the residents and visitors closely. Several wandered in and out but none looked to have the right build. An hour later, it turned out his target had no apparent inclination to hide himself. If anything, Jesse McCree was making efforts to stand out. He walked leisurely from the building in a red flannel and jeans, cowboy boots clicking against the concrete steps, and a stetson decorated with gold bullets and badge catching what was left of the dying sunlight. Well. It was certainly a departure from his Mystery Man attire – perhaps it was meant to throw Hanzo off. 

 

McCree strolled down the sidewalk and Hanzo waited till he was out of sight before springing up from the corner. He checked that none of his armor was showing through his jumpsuit and trotted down to the end of the alleyway. McCree was still in sight when he peered around the edge of the wall. Hanzo slipped into the flow of pedestrians and followed after him. There weren’t that many people out to use as cover, but it was better than nothing. It was a risk to tail McCree on foot – he could be more easily seen or stopped, but most of all, his bow and quiver had to be fit into a bag slung over his shoulder. He was not about to make a house call to a hero without his favored weapon on hand, but having the arms of his bow already folded open would be too much for blending into a crowd. If he had to fight, he would just have to rely on close quarters combat till he could find cover long enough to snap everything into place. Following from above would have allowed him to have his weapon at the ready, but Hanzo had to balance that against the odds of any heroes, McCree or otherwise, knowing to look for him there.

 

McCree didn’t appear to be in any rush as he made his way down what must have been a well worn route. Hanzo was able to easily keep track of him while still maintaining an unassuming distance. The broad brimmed hat worked to his favor, giving him just a little extra warning when McCree was about to turn his head. They neared a more populated street, giving Hanzo more civilians to mask his presence, and he was able to follow just a bit closer. He took note of the colorful signs and storefronts and wondered what McCree was after. Perhaps one of the shops in this area was a front for something and he had a connection. Did superheroes have connections? He recalled the number McCree had tried to give him and realized the appropriate question wasn’t  _ if _ he had informants, but rather  _ how many _ . Another factor to worry about considering he was effectively stalking the man.  

 

McCree took a sudden turn down a cobblestone walkway between two buildings. Hanzo pivoted out of his paranoid musing and followed, approaching the edge of the path slowly. Crisscrossing above it were strings of small, colorful lanterns bobbing in the breeze. They clashed with the bright neon from a bar sign shining where the path hooked into a sharp right. Hanzo spotted McCree just as he rounded the corner and out of sight again. A tiny ripple of adrenaline filtered through him – the hero’s pace had quickened. He cut in and tried to regain the ground he’d lost. The crowds were thin along the back way McCree was leading him through, but at the next turn it opened up to a lively mass of color and noise. Street vendors and local shoppers were in abundance and Hanzo finally had enough camouflage to move more quickly. But McCree seemed to be using the people as much to cover his tracks as Hanzo was using them to try to keep up.

 

Was – was McCree trying to lose him? 

 

Hanzo’s face pinched into a petulant scowl. When had he noticed?  _ Had _ he noticed? He was still wearing that cowboy hat, if he  _ really _ intended to shake someone tailing him, he should’ve just taken it off. Though even as he thought that, Hanzo was starting to have problems keeping eyes on it. McCree moved through a swell of people hovering around a small restaurant patio, happy hour drinks in hand. Hanzo had to move sharply to the side to keep that hat in view and even then it managed to fade into the crowd. He thought McCree had gone inside the restaurant, but just as his hand touched the door to follow, he spotted the hero walking off in the other direction. 

 

Hanzo was at more of a disadvantage than he realized. Even if McCree hadn’t seen him, he was still a hero who preferred avoiding notice – it might have been in his nature to be evasive. What was more, McCree clearly knew this area well and slotted into its ebbs and flows with practiced ease. Hanzo couldn’t match that level of fluidity on unfamiliar territory, not without slowing down and subsequently losing his target. If he wanted to see where the hero was headed, he needed to get off the ground. 

 

He looked to the nearest darkened alley, then back to where McCree was smoothly escaping him. If he threw caution to the wind and ran to scramble up the side of a building, McCree would have vanished by the time he got up high enough to track him again. The gap between them pulled wider and Hanzo felt his inevitable loss fill the space. 

 

He sighed heavily through his nose and turned around. He was having less than no luck handling any of his problems using tact lately – he might as well see what a straightforward approach would net him.

 

Hanzo wound his way back down the route McCree had led him on. His frustration grew in coarse waves as the apartment complex came into view down the street. Taking care of things with quiet efficiency had always been Hanzo’s preferred method, but this city was cursed. Simple tasks continually blossomed into comical failures and if he could put a face to his turmoil, it would have sharp brown eyes and a rugged beard.

 

A half an hour passed and Hanzo had spent all of it pressed up against the side of McCree’s building, trying to distract himself from getting too irritated to focus. With how things had been going for him thus far, it wouldn’t have surprised him in the slightest if McCree just never showed back up. He looked away from his sidelong glaring at the sidewalk and allowed his head to thunk against the brick. At least it was dark enough now that he wasn’t completely obvious as he lurked around the corner. When he looked back, some higher power had taken pity on him and manifested that damn brown leather hat down the walkway. Hanzo took a few deep breaths to settle the spike of nervous annoyance that peaked along with his relief. There was no plan – not really. His plans hadn’t been working out anyway, so as McCree approached the door, Hanzo steadied himself and stepped out to meet him. 

 

McCree’s head snapped up and his arm shifted to his hip. The huge, gleaming revolver was absent from his side, but he was clearly prepared for a fight nonetheless. The image of his relaxed strolling drifted through Hanzo’s mind – apparently masking tension with the appearance of casual calm was a normal strategy for him. A white bag crinkled in McCree’s opposite hand and Hanzo gave it a quick look. Nondescript, but with a few telltale spots of oil marring its surface – 

 

McCree lifted the bag and gave it a small shake, shuffling the contents, “Sorry, sunshine, only got enough for one.”

 

Hanzo’s face fell into a flat indignation. He almost kept quiet, but given how he was committed to flying blind in this mess now, wantonly trading barbs only seemed appropriate. 

 

“Did you really risk your life for take out?”

 

McCree stood straighter, right hand twitching, but less on guard, “Spoken like a man who ain’t ever had Mama Arroyo’s memelas.”

 

Hanzo had nothing for that one and merely raised an eyebrow. McCree sucked his teeth and glanced at the building.

 

“The sidewalk ain’t a good place for the conversation we’re about to have,” he shifted back and sighed, “You’re here, I’m just gonna be cordial and invite you in.” 

 

It was true that they certainly couldn’t talk out in the open, but the thought of all this potentially being a trap suddenly bled into Hanzo’s core.  _ This  _ was why he didn’t like flinging himself into things. He took a mental inventory of every escape route he knew of from that point and nodded. McCree was at least also wary of the situation, and seemed loathe to take his eyes off him even to open the door. He walked in with deliberate steps, and Hanzo cautiously followed. It was almost a comfort that McCree was showing equal amounts of trepidation as they slowly ascended three flights of stairs. If he were just as worried about any surprises, it felt less likely he’d set one up for Hanzo. 

 

McCree stopped at a door and looked back at him briefly before switching the bag to his right and turning the lock. He pushed it slowly open, his left hand brushing down the hinges as he stepped through. A flick of motion between his fingers seized Hanzo up at the threshold. 

 

“What’s in your hand?” he demanded, even toned and firm. 

 

McCree flipped his prosthetic around to reveal a jack of spades that had been hidden in the door. “Just a lil extra security.”

 

Hanzo’s eyes narrowed, “A playing card?” Though, thinking about it, he supposed he couldn’t really judge anyone using a low-tech security system. He just didn’t expect something like that from a superhero.

 

“Playing cards can’t get hacked and I still know if somebody was here, don’t I?” there was a note of exasperation in his voice as he pulled the door wider, “Now you comin in or not?” 

 

Hanzo frowned, but pushed through his apprehension and stepped inside. He had the brief, alarming impulse of needing to remove his shoes upon entering the personal residence of someone he didn’t presently intend to kill – but considering the circumstances, and the fact that his host wasn’t taking off his boots, he decided to ignore it. While McCree reconfigured his ‘security’ Hanzo scanned around for cover and exits should he need them. The entryway opened up into a wide space split into a kitchen and a living room covered in Western and Noir movie posters. A short hall sat between them along the back wall, presumably leading to bath and sleeping quarters. He took a few more steps in for a better look. A red and gold serape was draped over the back of a couch arbitrarily angled in a corner, across from a thick recliner. Possible cover, but poorly positioned. The kitchen had enough space for a small table, but half the wall above it was taken up by a multi paneled window overlooking the street. Hanzo frowned – it was equal parts potential exit and a perfect view for a sniper.

 

“Kinda ironic, ain’t it?” McCree took off his hat and left it resting over a wiry, antique looking lantern atop a chest of drawers near the door. “A mystery man showin up on Mystery Man’s doorstep.” He moved past Hanzo and sat at the table in the kitchen. He pulled a container from the bag then lightly kicked out the chair opposite him, waving his hand at it. “Take a load off, make yourself at home.” his words were colored with a mild resentment. 

 

Hanzo hesitated as McCree took from his box a fried round of dough piled with beans, cheese, and richly colored sauces intermingling between the layers. The savory smell drifted over and Hanzo wondered if McCree would be perfectly fine just eating the whole thing while Hanzo loomed angrily over him. Not that even he wouldn’t be  _ that _ childish. Hanzo let McCree get a few bites into his dinner before carefully setting down his bag and taking a seat across from him. 

 

“Alright,” he said once Hanzo had settled, “now what brings you to my humble home? You finally feel like playin nice or did you remember your manners?”

 

“Excuse me?” Hanzo’s lip curled into a half hearted snarl. It sounded suspiciously like he was being condescended to. 

 

“For a start,” McCree pressed his forearm against the table and shifted forward. “ How about showin some gratitude for followin you outta that warehouse and makin sure you were ok after Widow tagged you at least twice? Now normally, no thanks are required, just doin my duty and all that – but seein as how you keep threatenin me with bodily harm, I figure I’ll be a sonofabitch just this once considerin you’re just so damn sweet.” 

 

Hanzo had never before heard a honeyed southern drawl roll out with such perfectly enunciated sarcasm. He was at a bit of a loss, but McCree saved him the trouble as leaned back in his chair and flitted his hand at him.

 

“I never even got a name outta you, and here I am, in all my chivalry, practically gift wrappin myself in my own damn house. ”

 

He did have a point, but Hanzo had no intentions of giving McCree any hints at his own identity if he didn’t already have them. So he brushed off the latter portion of the rant and refocused on the former.

 

“What brought you to that warehouse in the first place? The only Talon operative there was Widowmaker – was that really enough to draw you out?”

 

“She’s just plenty all on her own, dontcha think?” McCree shot back with an insinuating look. Hanzo glared in response and he dropped it. “At any rate, anywhere she goes, somebody’s probably gonna get shot who probably shouldn’t, so yeah, I got a tip she was on the prowl and went in to take a peek. Pretty straight forward. Now you –” he leaned forward again, “what particular beef do  _ you _ got with the Shimada gang?” 

 

“Hn” Hanzo huffed, “Check their resumé and pick a reason.”

 

“Sure.” McCree said flatly, “But all things considered, I’m willin to bet it’s personal” he nodded toward Hanzo’s right shoulder.

 

He clenched his jaw. The brand hidden under his sleeve. It had been a bit of dramatic punishment early in his conquest. He’d gone after his father’s cousin, the first Elder he’d targeted after escaping the castle. He thought he knew what he was in for, but it turned out she was more vicious than he predicted when driven to paranoia. He had been caught and subjected to an extended diatribe on knowing one’s place and who had authority over whom. Afterward, she’d had him held down and branded with the Shimada crest. After  _ that _ Hanzo had slipped his bonds and found more inventive ways of using the hot iron.

 

So yes, ‘personal’ was certainly a way of describing it.

 

“If so, then that makes it even  _ less _ your business.” he crossed his arms, knowing he was being far too defensive, but hoping it was enough to inspire a change of subject. 

 

McCree watched him a moment with his too keen eyes, clearly wanting to say something, but mercifully deciding not to. He sighed heavily and loud, running his fingers through his wayward hair. 

 

“ Listen, it’s pretty clear we’re out there goin after the same people for more or less the same reasons. Arguing in circles ain’t helpin either of us, and I ain’t partial to just settin you loose so we can all step on each other’s toes some more. You showed up here to talk, so either talk or let a man eat in peace. ”

 

There was really only one thing Hanzo had any interest in talking about, but he had to admit, the level of weary irritation radiating from the hero was giving him pause. After all, McCree wasn’t necessarily  _ wrong _ . Hanzo faltered for a moment, then set his fists on his thighs and sat straight in the wooden chair. 

 

“ Your people’s raid ruined my lead. I need a new one. Tell me what you found out. ” 

 

McCree barked a humorless laugh and seemed to be genuinely running out of patience.

 

“ Now what did I  _ just _ say about tryin not to step on each other’s toes? I ain’t offerin you information to go flyin off with, I’m offerin you a  _ partnership _ . ” he stabbed the index finger of his metal hand onto the table with a dull thud. 

 

Hanzo stalled and reeled back just slightly. McCree had mentioned collaborating before, but he had always taken it to mean Overwatch just siphoning off information then using it to muscle their way into his work. To steal from him the retribution that was his duty to fulfill. 

 

“I  wouldn’t think anyone in a command position at Overwatch would consider giving access to sensitive materials to a stranger. ” he pressed.

 

McCree looked at him curiously and sat back, slinging his arm over the top rail of his chair. 

 

“ I wanna work together,” he said, gesturing at Hanzo with his free hand, “I ain’t sayin I’m gonna walk you into HQ on day one. Either way, you’re gonna have to figure out if you’re willin to trust me here. And it’d be a little less of a hassle if you’d give me a name to use. I mean, if it’s the other supers you’re worried about, I got a buddy who ain’t no stranger to Shimada related vendettas. He’d probably buy you a drink if he found out. ”

 

That shot a rush of dread through Hanzo’s gut. There was less than zero need for him to come face to face with any superhero with a grudge against the Shimada Family. 

 

“They are not here to negotiate, and I see no reason to include them in any of the proceedings.” The sudden tension ratcheting through his body made his voice tight and McCree held up a hand in consolation. 

 

“Just you an me then.” his tone was resolute. “ You’re a loner – I get why you’re hung up on the concept of ‘teamwork,’ but let me just clarify: I am takin a much bigger risk than you in all this. All things considered, I think  _ me _ trustin  _ you _ right now is the more dangerous gamble. ”

 

“Then why are you? You make a good case not to.” The words fell forth without much thought and Hanzo surprised himself at how earnestly he wanted to know. Of course he wanted the answer to be something foolishly idealistic and easily dispelled, but at the same time, he found even he was beginning to tire of his own resistance to the best possible solution to his present problems. After so many years hunting yakuza, it was a bizarre sensation suddenly realizing he was being the most unreasonable person in the room.

 

“Archer, you are doin your damndest to make the case  _ for _ me, which, let’s be honest, is sayin more about you than you might think.” McCree cocked an eyebrow and Hanzo shoved down a defensive retort. Then McCree folded his arms on the table and held Hanzo’s gaze. 

 

“I trust a man’s  _ actions _ .  And through all your shady ass shit you ain’t done nothin to harm me and mine. Apparently you are just single mindedly chasin after a bunch of yakuza. Not to mention, you coulda done a lot with my little secret. But here I am, normal as anythin, eatin my dinner in less than amiable company. ”

 

Again, he wasn’t technically wrong. Hanzo had no interest in fighting supers if he could help it, but that wasn’t to say he was as noble as McCree seemed to suggest. The grand legacy of his name would be defined by bloodshed, the restoration of his honor depended on it. 

 

“I didn’t keep your secret out of camaraderie, I needed information.” Having standards didn’t make him a hero, that much he wanted McCree to understand. 

 

He just shrugged his weight to one shoulder and raised both brows, “ You thought I put a tracker in a calling card and didn’t immediately take my head off – it might not be camaraderie, but you don’t strike me as pure evil, either. ”

 

Hanzo scoffed, but found he didn’t have a counter. Not that it mattered – he wanted to salvage the situation and this was by far the most efficient way he had to do it. Logically, the choice was simple, but – the bitter chasm between what he knew he was and what McCree was mistaking him for – it was all proving difficult to reconcile. He stared a moment at the table before looking back at McCree.

 

“It is not much to base a partnership on.” The battle was lost, he knew, but accepting McCree’s help felt like he was accepting McCree’s conclusions and he just couldn’t stop fighting it. 

 

The hero met Hanzo’s last stand with a tired solemnity.

 

“ Better than letting you wander around unsupervised. Besides, it ain’t all about camaraderie on my end either – we’ve been watchin Talon, you’ve been watchin the Shimadas. There are notes worth comparin here and the longer you’re stubborn about it, the more time all the bad guys have to slip through our fingers. ” 

 

Hanzo sighed through his nose. He was right. At this point he was just wasting time. He gave McCree a heavy nod and the finality of it pulled through his neck like a dead weight.

 

“Great.” McCree clapped his hands on the table and sat straight, “ See? Didn’t need to have all this drama about it. ” 

 

That pulled a scowl up from Hanzo’s slow descent into brooding. 

 

“ You come by tomorrow mornin and we’ll see what we can get done working together. ”

 

And that was that. 

 

He shook his head slightly and his eyes wandered to the window. He was not at all certain what would happen when he met McCree on the street, but he would not have predicted this.

 

McCree pointedly cleared his throat and Hanzo realized their business was done but he was still just sitting in a stranger’s kitchen. He blinked and stood suddenly, then pulled his bag back over his shoulder in stilted motions. McCree let slip a soft chuckle as he got up to follow Hanzo to the door. 

 

A hundred tense debates with gangsters and relatives with his vitals at their fingertips, and the scourge of the Shimada Clan was done in by an awkward exit from a situation he hadn’t yet fully processed.

 

Truly, this city was cursed.

 

“Good night, archer.” McCree said as he removed the card to let him out.

 

“Yes...” Hanzo moved stiffly past him.

 

A thought bubbled into mind, a small abatement for all his pointless arguing. Hanzo abruptly twisted around, slapping his hand against the door McCree was about to close. The hero’s eyes’ narrowed but Hanzo only tried to shove his posture into a slightly more respectable shape. 

 

“I – ah –” at his floundering, McCree relaxed and waited. Hanzo scrambled his dignity and forced the words out, “Thank you. For your assistance with – all of this.” 

 

McCree smirked, but was obviously fighting to keep it in check, “You are very welcome, sugar, any time.”

 

Hanzo left the building to make the long trek back to his hideout, lamenting that a morning meeting meant he still could not allow himself to drink his weight in sake.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Guys. GUYS. I finally got to write a good stretch of dialogue. D: It's like the one thing I feel a modicum of confidence in writing, and FINALLY they are talking!
> 
> Also, I suppose I should say, I do have a twitter, it's @kitsune2022


	8. Chapter 8

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Bit of a shorter one. Shenanigans were meant to ensue, but it ended up feeling better just rounding this chapter off and saving the nonsense for next time.

There was something disturbingly surreal clinging to every inch of Hanzo’s situation. He lingered, away from the slowly rising sun, in the alley across the street from the apartment building. The awkwardness from his encounter hadn’t died down much, and only the fact that he hadn’t slept at all the night before allowed him to power through his embarrassment enough to get any rest. Even now, a subtle anxiety prickled over his insides. McCree hadn’t specified a time other than ‘morning.’ Hanzo had been loitering outside for 20 minutes, not sure what a freelance reporter and nightstalking hero considered an appropriate hour for company. There also had been no discussion over how Hanzo was to prepare before arriving. There was a significant amount of internal debate at his hideout over how well armed and armored he should be. In the end, he decided to split the difference, leaving the bulk of his gear behind, but bringing his bow and arrows once again hidden in a pack over his shoulder.

 

Now he only needed to ring McCree’s apartment buzzer so he could have a morning discussion of strategy with a superhero in his own home. 

 

Hanzo heaved a sigh, steeled himself, then finally walked up to the door and pressed the button next to the apartment number. A few moments passed before McCree’s face appeared on the small screen above the intercom.

 

“Who is it?” he said pleasantly. Hanzo glowered at him through the camera – as if he would give him a name on the street when he wouldn’t even do so behind closed doors. McCree waved his hand dismissively, “At the risk of you turnin right around and leavin, I will inform you that that was, in fact, a joke.” The door made a ragged chiming noise and the lock audibly opened, “Come on up.” The screen flickered off and Hanzo rolled his eyes as he entered. He only needed one knock before McCree opened the door and ushered him inside.

 

“I’m glad you still showed,” he said, pausing briefly to reset the playing card, “I don’t think either of us were in a good mindset for makin new friends last night.”

 

McCree moved back toward the kitchen and Hanzo was, once again, caught hovering at the entrance. He had to make a decision quickly, before McCree realized he was stuck. They had loosely established that neither meant the other harm and McCree had even told Hanzo their dealings would remain between just the two of them. There was no reason to think he’d need to be so on edge that he couldn’t maintain a baseline of respect in someone else’s home. 

 

Hanzo discreetly toed off his shoes and left them by the door. 

 

McCree had only just barely acknowledged the brief pause and moved to pour coffee from a pot at the counter.

 

“How d’you take yours?” he asked, as though there was nothing at all strange about the situation.

 

“Black is – fine.” Hanzo could not manage the same in his response.

 

He had left the hideout that morning hoping he’d be able to rally enough social graces to make this meeting less awkward than their last, but so far the odds were looking grim. McCree handed him a mug covered in playful cacti as he took a seat in front of his own, half-full one. Hanzo sat in the same chair from last night, with only slightly smoother motions, as he dropped his bag to the side. 

 

There was an uncomfortable pause as McCree sipped a bit more of his own coffee. 

 

“Alright.” His mug hit the table with a loud clink, and he folded his hands. “I’ve slept, eaten, and caffeinated – I’m ready to approach this thing like a proper functioning adult. You?” 

 

Hanzo didn’t appreciate the implication, but nodded without protest. 

 

“Good. Ok. Any decent partnership needs good communication, so first things first, we’re gonna handle the hard part: We gotta know what the other can do if we’re gonna work together.” McCree waited for Hanzo to react, but he didn’t. It made perfect sense, if anything, Hanzo was more bothered by the fact that McCree apparently expected him to resist everything.

 

Though, after last night’s performance, he couldn’t really blame him.

 

“Alright then, I’ll start. In terms of powers, I guess you could say I mostly just have good eyes.” McCree said simply. “Everythin else I manage is just a product of practice and bad influences, but it helps that I get a lil more info just from lookin.” he tapped a finger to his temple.

 

Hanzo’s eyes narrowed.

 

“Your super power is ‘good eyes’?”

 

“I mean, yeah, pretty much.” McCree chuckled. “I know, it ain’t that excitin, comparatively. If I get a good look at somebody, my eyes can pick out whatever’s weak on em. Injury they’re hidin, stress makin a muscle tense – if you got a hole in your armor anywhere, these eyes are gonna find it, lit up like the only star in the sky. All I gotta do after that is point and shoot – it just happens I’m pretty good at hittin where I’m aimin.”

 

That certainly explained a lot. Mystery Man felt supernaturally observant because he literally was.

 

“And that’s me, more or less. You’ve seen most everything else I got out on the field already. So –” he set his shoulders, apparently still ready to have his patience tested, “what about you, archer?”

 

Hanzo leaned back in his seat, “I have no powers to speak of. I am also just very good at hitting the things I aim at.” he said smoothly. “As you say – a product of practice and bad influences.” He had wanted to prove McCree’s assumptions wrong, that he was, in fact, perfectly capable of collaborating – but the hero didn’t appear satisfied with his answer. 

 

McCree sighed quietly through his nose and his lips thinned. Hanzo’s brows nudged downward as he wondered what else he was supposed to have said.

 

“And the arrows you got with that little vibration comin off em. Those don’t do anythin special?” McCree gestured at the bag on the floor.

 

Hanzo blinked in sudden realization of his error.

 

The hero’s hand flitted by, dismissively, “I get it, tellin people the specs of your gear is a dangerous thing to go an do, but I gotta know what I’m dealin with here. I don’t need details, just the basics.” he was already starting to sound tired.

 

Hanzo was irked immediately by his tone. He’d been trying to be  _ accommodating _ this time, not just obstinate for the sake of it. He didn’t think to bring up anything else because he usually avoided putting much thought into how his implants affected his normal functions. His main skills had been acquired through years of practice and refinement, not the surgeries. The cybernetics were – convenient, but unwanted enhancements to what had already existed. 

 

Well, except for his eyes.

 

“Those are sonic arrows,” Hanzo responded slowly, “I have – eye implants. To see when people approach.” 

 

It was strangely difficult to push the words out. There was an odd, unexpected pressure trying to constrict around his throat. It wasn’t that he was spilling his secrets to a superhero, it was hardly even a secret. Anyone he’d ever hunted knew everything about his situation already.

 

Oh. 

 

He’d never spoken about the details of what happened to him out loud before – there had never been a need. 

 

The closest he’d come was his outburst against Genji. 

 

Apprehension laced into his chest.

 

Having  _ that _ come to mind wasn’t helping.

 

“Alright, good to know – anythin else?” 

 

Hanzo’s wavering attention flicked back to McCree. He needed to stay focused. The anxiety was spreading through his lungs, holding them hostage so he might keep his mouth shut. He had to say something, but the jagged, irrational feeling of not wanting to give voice to it locked his jaw. McCree’s face remained neutral, but it gave Hanzo no comfort. As much as he was trying to keep his sudden distress from showing, he knew now that those eyes were inhumanly capable of seeing right through him. 

 

A beat passed and a hint of uncertainty slipped into McCree’s expression. Apparently neither of them were expecting Hanzo to have so much trouble. It was slightly mortifying, to be perfectly honest, and Hanzo firmly decided that something so simple was not an obstacle he would tolerate. He clenched his fists under the table and spoke up before McCree could consider letting the question go.

 

“I have – other modifications” he ground out, “Mostly legs. Spine. Some enhancements and reinforcing.” Hanzo hoped for some relief for getting it out, despite how little there was, but the anxiety was only replaced by a low sitting nausea. 

 

For the briefest of moments, he was back in the hospital, bones aching, as Katsuya casually explained everything through a placid smile. He swallowed back the memory and forcibly steadied his gaze on the man in front of him.

 

McCree didn’t seem off put by Hanzo’s struggle to string together a response. There wasn’t any pity that Hanzo could see, as weak as he must have looked in those eyes. The hero betrayed only a subtle understanding as he worked his jaw.

 

“The Shimada gang make a habit of ‘enhancin’ folks?”

 

Every one of Hanzo’s muscles tensed, his entire body rejecting this particular line of questioning.

 

“I could not say for certain.” his voice was edged with warning. McCree seemed to accept it, and took another drink of his coffee. 

 

It was true. Hanzo really didn’t know how much of themselves or the clan the Elders had offered up for R&D testing. Not too long after his first few major successes out on his own, the prosthetics company was bought out by another. It was possible that the new management had either better funds or a better PR department and cut ties with the yakuza. If the remaining Elders – or whoever was in charge now – had invested further, Hanzo certainly hadn’t seen it. That being said, now they were in bed with Talon – there was no telling how much they’d been willing to sacrifice to stay alive.

 

All the same, his curt response was exactly as much as he was willing to say on the subject. 

 

“Alright. Now for the easy part.” McCree soldiered on, despite Hanzo’s bristling, “I get that you got some reservations about – well, a lot of things.”

 

Hanzo frowned at him, but he could hardly argue.

 

“I mean to respect that. If it don’t pertain to work, I ain’t gonna press you on it. So your name, your grudge, your hobbies – anythin I don’t gotta know to do the job, you are free to keep to yourself.” He splayed his hands out on the table, “I won’t go diggin for anythin, curiosity be damned.”

 

The bare earnestness in his face and tone was surprisingly disarming.

 

“All I ask is that if it  _ does _ apply to the situation, and knowin would help keep my brains in my head, you fill me in on it. I’ll keep the same rule on my end. I won’t spill any Overwatch secrets or nothin, but if it needs to be said, I will say it. That sound fair to you?”

 

Hanzo had no particular interest in Overwatch secrets anyway, but he was relieved that McCree wouldn’t make any attempts to use his resources as a reporter against him. Or at least presumed the hero had the good sense not to attempt anything while Hanzo still had his name and home address. He gave a firm nod in agreement.

 

“Good – great.” a weight seemed to lift from McCree’s shoulders. “In that case, we can get down to business.”

 

Hanzo was equally relieved to be past the personal inquiries and hurriedly collected himself to jump topics. But before he could say anything, McCree’s hand went up to stop him.

 

“And before you even go there, no, I will not feed you all the details of what HQ found out from the boys they got locked up down there.”

 

Hanzo’s expression soured, but he restrained himself from commenting before he could piece together a less demanding tone.

 

“Why.”

 

It was not less demanding by very much.

 

“Because,” McCree responded calmly, “You wanted to avoid introducin yourself to the whole crew – which, by the way, we technically ain’t been introduced yet either, so I  _ am _ just gonna call you whatever comes to mind. And that doesn’t count as pressin, I’m just lettin you know.”

 

Hanzo cocked an eyebrow as the hero waved a hand and kept going.

 

“Anyway, whatever leads Overwatch gets from anything or anybody picked up from the raid,  _ they _ are gonna follow. Which means, if  _ you  _ want to fly under the radar, we’ll just have to go at it from a different angle. I can tell you right now, Talon’ll take priority, and they’re too big a fish for just you an me to take on anyway. So – we focus on sniffin out the yakuza boys. You wanted to do that anyway, right?”

 

Hanzo pursed his lips. It certainly was what he wanted, he just didn’t see how giving him more information could be anything but helpful. Their ‘collaboration’ perhaps needed to be better defined.

 

“Pursuing other avenues with an unknown party and no supervision – would this not attract the attention of your colleagues anyway?” he asked. If nothing else, he could find out if working together would end up being more trouble than it was worth after all. McCree only laughed.

 

“I ain’t doin nothin they wouldn’t send me out to do anyway. They are fully aware that some jobs just work better without glowin bits or power armor. And if I got a new ‘informant’ helpin me out, well, that ain’t nothin new either.”

 

Hanzo watched him for a moment, hand tapping lightly on his thigh. Well. It wasn’t  _ ideal _ , but the arrangement presented was really more than he could have realistically hoped for. He slid his hands carefully around the mug in front of him and let the heat absorb into his skin.

 

“I accept your terms.” Hanzo’s tone was weighed down with finality. 

 

“Glad t’hear it, cause they weren’t up for negotiation.” McCree’s was just as final. 

 

A small stretch of silence followed. When it was clear there were no further objections, McCree got on with why they were both sitting at his kitchen table in the first place.

 

“Alright. So. What you think about our new Shimada friends? Anything you picked up that I might be able to fill in the blanks on?”

 

Hanzo at long last took a sip of his coffee and thought about it. 

 

“Talon loaned them Widowmaker, which you saw, but they were also hiring from outside. Only those you might have seen the night we first met were from the clan, the rest, I assume, were freelancers acquired to bolster their small entourage.”

 

“Not surprised – they were dressed a mite nicer, but the tats looked local.” McCree added, “I thought it mighta been Talon bringin some folks together, but I wasn’t inside till after Balderich busted in the door. We didn’t catch all of em, a couple slipped out while everybody was still raisin hell outside.”

 

The wheels were starting to turn in Hanzo’s head. “They would be worth tracking down.” 

 

McCree whistled, “Gibraltar’s a big city, archer, you’re gonna need to narrow it down a bit.”

 

“That may actually be possible.” Hanzo said half to himself. He took his phone from his pocket and pulled up the map of the rental car’s various stops that day. “I put a tracker on their car, trying to find their superiors – that’s what led me to the warehouse.” he turned the screen toward McCree, but did not let go of it. To the hero’s credit, he made no attempt to take it from him. “I investigated the areas marked, but didn’t find anything useful. A different perspective might see otherwise.”

 

McCree examined the phone and rubbed his beard. “Yeah, there are some gang hot spots you passed through, but a couple of those are conveniently just outside.”

 

Hanzo raised an eyebrow, “Is that significant?”

 

“Maybe. Does bring some things to mind though.”

 

Hanzo locked his screen and set the phone down. “Do tell.” 

 

“I was gettin to it.” McCree sounded surprisingly put out. “There’s a fixer around town somewhere. A real business man, found himself a niche and signs on low rank fellas who want some extra cash.”

 

“And what is his niche, exactly?”

 

“Right up the Shimada alley, apparently. Like I said, this city’s huge and there’s a lot of shady dealins runnin through it, big an small. Guys show up from outta town needin some extra manpower, preferably vetted and with a good knowledge of the area. This guy hooks em up with some locals. I think maybe the Shimada were goin around collectin personnel before headin out to their big thing with the Talon goons.”

 

Hanzo kicked himself for not considering that when he was out searching. Perhaps frustration and the long night had gotten the better of him. He shoved the thought aside for now – it was unlikely he would have recognized anything important had he seen it anyway.

 

“These local gangs,” he continued, “they don’t mind this ‘business man’ facilitating the interference of outsiders?” 

 

“That’s kinda the tricky part.” McCree leaned back and idly ran a hand through his hair. “I first caught wind of him through some info taken off Talon. Apparently a couple of their squads have been using him to keep tabs on activity in the underworld. They’re the biggest game in town, sure, but you don’t stay that way by ignorin the little guy.”

 

“Hn.” Hanzo pondered over his mug, “He is useful enough to have powerful friends, but not so disruptive that people are willing to risk attacking him.”

 

“Pretty much. They’d have to find him first anyway, I took a wild stab at it once and came up empty.”

 

An idea clicked into place and Hanzo straightened up.

 

“I wasn’t around then.” 

 

“Oh?” McCree gave him a skeptical look, “Is that the plan you’re proposin? Havin us chase after one of the slipperiest acts in town?”

 

“It is.” Hanzo leaned his arms against the table. “Talon was buying something from the clan that night and brought a significant amount of muscle to ensure it happened. If they were going to have that many troops around, why would they bother paying to have small timers filling out the Shimada side of the table?”

 

“Alright, so the mob guys wanted to look like big tough bosses in front of the new clients?” McCree matched Hanzo’s posture and encouraged him to continue. 

 

“But they are most certainly  _ not _ .” He said pointedly, some energy finally returning to him after this slog of a morning. “Those men were client facing, but their power to make actual decisions was limited. They would not have been permitted to dress up some local gang members and have them represent the clan like that – someone higher up would have had to sign off on it. If nothing else, to appear as though they didn’t need to rely on Talon for  _ everything _ .”

 

“And whoever footed the bill you’re thinkin is the boss man you’re lookin for.” McCree smirked.

 

“Or close enough to it. We can use what we have to find this fixer and get the payment information out of him. Even if they’re not in Gibraltar, I’ll have an account number to follow.” Hanzo found himself feeling very forgiving all the sudden that his prey had been stolen. They might have given him a name, but that paled in comparison to a money trail.

 

“Shoot. Well, I got a contact who’s the best hacker this side of the Pacific – you give her somethin to work with, and she’ll get you more’n you ever wanted to know.” McCree shifted his weight to one elbow. “ _ If _ we can find the fixer.”

 

Hanzo scoffed and turned his chin up.

 

“He has something of mine. I  _ will _ find him.”

 

McCree was clearly holding back some amusement, but Hanzo didn’t care. He had a  _ plan _ with  _ resources _ and the chance at finding the current head of the clan – or at least their funds, which he would  _ not _ lament pilfering.

 

“Then it looks like we got ourselves a rodeo, partner.” 


	9. Chapter 9

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Updating in the airport, I finished just in time. D:

The number of stake outs Hanzo had been on over the course of his life was beyond counting. They obviously weren’t nearly as engaging as infiltration or assassination, but before he could do any of that he’d have to actually  _ find _ people. As tedious as waiting around could be, Hanzo was still a firm believer of the adage ‘if you wait by the river long enough, the bodies of your enemies will float by.’ He did, after all, have many dead enemies to prove the value of patient vigilance. Prior to tonight, he wouldn’t have thought anything could make loitering in one spot for hours feel like something besides a tragically dull but necessary part of the job.

 

It was certainly a novel experience with  _ Mystery Man _ in his ear.

 

It wasn’t necessarily that he had company this time – before Hanzo left the clan, there had been plenty of missions where a small team was required. But all of those people had been underlings. They were required to be respectful, to the point, and above all else, follow Hanzo’s orders without question.

 

Hanzo had never before dealt with this much  _ chatter _ . 

 

McCree was below him, leaning under a dark archway covered in decorative masonry that had worn away to exposed brick. They’d been hovering within sight of the graffiti covered back entrance to a sports bar for 2 hours, and he had been talking for most of it.

 

It began as at least related to their current task: Members of the gang they were looking for came here often. The owner was apparently asthmatic and told his shadier regulars that as long as nobody smoked in his bar, he wouldn’t call the cops for a drunken disorderly. They had counter offered with a demand for a private smoking lounge or they’d just open a window, ie. throw a chair through it. The squabble amounted to cheap patio furniture set out back, complete with a tiny fire pit used more as an ashtray than for ambiance. Swept aside in the corner there was even evidence of a potted plant in a dirty heap of terracotta shards. It made Hanzo feel oddly crestfallen that the owner had put forth such an effort in the service of such ungrateful thugs.

 

After Hanzo and McCree’s initial arrival, the two had settled in their positions. Hanzo on a vantage point in a nearby fire escape, while McCree, dressed once again in all black, lurked in shadows on the ground. Then all there was to do was wait. 

 

And continue chatting. Apparently.

 

Perhaps he wanted to make good use of the earpiece he’d given Hanzo, as there were very few silences McCree would let stand. Without anything relevant to discuss, he was seemingly content with talking just to kill time. Though, true to his word, he didn’t ask for any personal information, so Hanzo’s own participation in the conversation was sparing – but that didn’t appear to bother McCree. 

 

Surprisingly enough, Hanzo found he wasn’t particularly bothered either. It wasn’t as though the rambling was distracting him from something important. There were no meandering employees to stalk and analyze the mannerisms of – just the back of an old building and a sad patio to stare at. It could have easily been the dullest stake out Hanzo had ever been on, but at least the minutes weren’t lasting any longer than they needed to. It was still an odd feeling having someone speak to him so casually while on the job. After a while, the low tones of McCree’s voice in his ear started to remind him of the electric drone of the light at his hideout. Not in quality, of course, but in function – an auditory constant to keep his mind from straying down too dark a path in an otherwise impenetrable stretch of silence.

 

McCree was listing off local restaurants he insisted Hanzo try before skipping town when the sounds of an argument began filtering through the back door. McCree eased into a smooth stop and Hanzo saw him push off from his spot leaning against the wall. Hanzo himself nocked a sonic arrow and shot it a few meters above the source of the muffled noises. It stuck cleanly into the mortar between the bricks and the wall lit up with splotches of red. 

 

“There are plenty of people inside the bar, it seems, but only one near this door.” he reported, “It looks like he’s on the phone.”

 

“Pretty aggressive conversation for us to be able to hear it all the way out here.”

 

“A distracted target is easier to engage.” Hanzo said succinctly as he carefully watched the occasional flailing of the silhouette. 

 

McCree hummed, “Which reminds me – before we get too far into this, how good exactly are you at catch an release?”

 

Hanzo turned to find McCree looking up at him. He scoffed. 

 

“You ask as though I’ve never had to capture anyone for questioning before.” It wasn’t McCree’s fault he didn’t know the full extent of Hanzo’s experience, but a lifetime of training and perfectionism had brought with them no small amount of pride.

 

“Really?” McCree shifted his weight on his hips, his voice turning airy and thoroughly unconvinced. “Without maimin em even? Must be somethin else.”

 

“You – ” Hanzo’s thoughts stalled out for a moment at the implied accusation “You use a  _ revolver  _ and you think  _ I’m _ at risk of causing too much damage?”

 

“I’m real good with this gun – how handy are  _ you _ with that bow?”

 

Hanzo didn’t respond, but glared down at him as he pulled out another arrow. It was an obvious ploy – a challenge to Hanzo’s skill to keep him from bringing irreparable harm to a low level offender who may not deserve it. 

 

Obvious, unnecessary, and absolutely going to work anyway. But not because Hanzo didn’t know that’s what McCree was trying to do.

 

The door to the bar flew open and a wiry young man in a puffy down jacket came out still yelling obscenities into his phone. He ended the call with an eloquent exclamation of “Bitch!” as his last word. Feeling self satisfied enough, he stowed the phone and took out a cigarette. As he brought it to his mouth, Hanzo could see what they needed. On the meat of his hand, between his thumb and index finger was a small tattoo that matched with some of the extras from the raid. 

 

McCree stepped out from the archway with just enough noise to be audible from the scuffing of his shoes on the concrete. 

 

“Hey there – mind if I have a word?”

 

The man glanced up, ready to dismiss McCree with a wave of his hand, but then registered who he was looking at. The defiant twist in his face broke into shock, and he immediately darted to the open alley at his left. McCree ran after him, Hanzo shadowing him from above, jumping between window ledges and balcony railings. 

 

The angle of their approach had not been arbitrary – McCree purposefully blocked off the only alley that didn’t lead into a dead end. When their target saw the wood fencing that cut off his escape he ran faster toward it. He took a leap and clasped his hands on the planks, scrambling to try to get over top of it. McCree moved to throw one of his flashbang grenades to stun him off the fence, but Hanzo beat him to the punch. Three arrows speared into the padding of the jacket in quick succession – one in the collar and one under both arms. The man’s grip slipped as he panicked and he hung, helplessly pinned, as feathers from his jacket wafted gently in the air. McCree tilted his head up at Hanzo as he re-clipped the flashbang to his belt, then moved in.

 

“Sorry about that, I think maybe you didn’t hear me – I asked if you had a minute to talk.”

 

“The fuck do you want!?” the man wrenched his neck back and waddled angrily against the fence.

 

“I just wanna talk, but here you are bein mighty rude about it.”

 

Hanzo just observed the ridiculous scene from his perch on a balcony above them. McCree looking perfectly relaxed, taking casual offense to the raging man stuck to a wall. It was actually fairly amusing, if he were being honest.

 

“Some friends of yours were out lookin to make a little extra on the side. Now I don’t mean to get you or them in any kinda trouble, I’m just lookin for somebody they might know. You wanna give me any info so I can let you go on your merry way?” 

 

The combination of McCree’s ‘Mystery Man’ charms and the strain from dangling awkwardly in the air eventually coaxed the man into talking. He didn’t know much, just suggestions of which of his friends might have gone in to freelance for outside parties. McCree thanked him for his help and looked up at Hanzo, gesturing with a flourish at the arrows keeping him suspended. Hanzo huffed mildly and lept over onto the fence. The man nearly jumped out of his skin as the wood rattled with Hanzo’s extra weight. He tried to work his head around to look at him, but Hanzo was already pulling out arrows, making him clamber to keep from falling. McCree took pity on him and stepped forward to help him get down. Once safely on the ground, he bolted away, yelling curses as he went. Hanzo rolled his eyes.

 

“I can’t believe that’s all it took to get anything out of him.” he said, still crouched above. “The gangsters in this city can’t possibly find you  _ that _ convincing.”

 

“You’d be surprised.” McCree laughed. “I got a gift for runnin my mouth and a reputation for meanin the things I say. I ain’t terrible popular, obviously, we’re still on opposite sides after all. But most people know I ain’t gonna stab em in the back at least.”

 

“Hn, either that or they’re all just weak willed underlings.” Hanzo returned two arrows to his quiver, but held onto the last.

 

“Sweet talked  _ you _ , didn’t I?” there was a sly smile in his voice as he dipped his head to tip his hat at Hanzo.

 

“That reminds me.” In a blink, Hanzo loaded the arrow and shot it down at McCree before he could look up. The arrowhead glanced across the rim of his hat, the force of it popping the thing off the hero’s head. Hanzo jumped down in front of him and swiped it out of the air as he did so. McCree sputtered and his eyes went wide, taking a few seconds to register what had happened. Hanzo kept his face neutral and his voice cool, but inside he was unabashedly smug. 

 

“I am  _ very _ ‘handy’ with this bow.” He pressed the hat into McCree’s chest. “And you should use your gift for talking more wisely.”

 

McCree stared and clumsily caught his hat as Hanzo let go of it. Hanzo bent down briefly to pluck the arrow from the ground, then smoothly walked past the hero. It was undoubtedly a frivolous bit of showing off, but the satisfaction of McCree’s face and subsequent speechlessness made it well worth it. Hanzo considered it important for their partnership going forward that he not be underestimated again – the stunt seemed to get the message across.

McCree found his voice again eventually and they did a bit more searching, but this time, Hanzo was participating a bit more in the conversations. Morning crept closer without much progress to show for it, so reluctantly, they decided to retreat to McCree’s apartment. It still felt surreal to be in a superhero’s living space, but at least it seemed to be getting gradually less so. They sat, once again, at the table and a plan was concocted: split up for a night, regroup the next day, always keep in contact just in case, then repeat unless confirmed otherwise.

 

They refined their system as the next few weeks went by. McCree set the meeting times and locations since he was the one working around both Overwatch and his writing. Sometimes they had to go a few days without recollecting, but McCree would give Hanzo suggestions on extra places to go or who to look for. Hanzo was the one who was adamant about a debriefing call each day even if McCree had been too busy to go out himself. The hero fought it at first, but later begrudgingly accepted Hanzo’s insistence on professionalism. They’d meet up when possible, either geared up in the city, or at the apartment to compare notes. The leads they had to follow were anemic, but at least they were making progress. One name led to another, that one to a dead end, then a close call, followed by yet another trial to run down.

 

Finding one of the freelancers that slipped the net at the raid turned out to be the easy part. There were gossipy friends and poor quality fake ids to thank for that. They’d found him holed up in his cousin’s apartment, frantically cleaning the place after being given an eviction ultimatum for freeloading. McCree calmly explained that he was after a bigger fish and was willing to let his transgressions at the warehouse go for good intel. Hanzo didn’t particularly like the idea.

 

“Sometimes these guys are just young and dumb and don’t know what the hell they stepped in till they tracked it all over.” McCree had insisted earlier that night, “If it doesn’t work then we’ll get mean about it, but till then, you can just stand there puttin the fear of awful consequences in ‘em with that face you make.” Hanzo scowled, which McCree only snickered at. “Yeah that one.”

 

Their target was resistant to McCree’s reasonable tone but seemed very nervous about provoking them. He had a white knuckle grip on a duster as he continued pleading with them to leave. McCree hadn’t been entirely wrong, the man did seem too green, but all the same, the stalemate was getting increasingly tiresome. The cousin was mentioned again, and Hanzo had an idea of how to pry out the necessary info while still maintaining his promise of limiting bodily harm whenever possible. 

 

He removed an arrow from his quiver – a motion that arrested all of the squirming freelancer’s attention. McCree glanced at Hanzo curiously, but made no motions to stop him. He flipped the arrow and held the point firmly over the back of the living room couch. The man was momentarily confused, before the sharp metal started sinking slowly closer to the fine leather. He jumped in a panic and quickly caved, giving McCree anything he could think to tell him. Hanzo put the arrow back and wished they could have stayed to meet this terrifying cousin. McCree, meanwhile, showed an admirable amount of restraint as he refrained from laughing till after they were back outside.

 

“Hot damn, archer, if you ain’t the most vicious thing ever to show up in this town.” he said through huffs. 

 

Hanzo found himself smirking under his mask. It was one thing to feel the satisfaction of meeting an objective, but working with McCree was starting to have the added benefit of – actually kind of enjoying himself.

 

McCree no longer felt the need to question Hanzo’s ability to play by their loosely defined rules – not that it stopped him from teasing on occasion anyway. But even that Hanzo didn’t mind. It had been – he didn’t even know how long since he had a proper opponent for his sarcasm. Or really, anyone to talk to at all that wasn’t a mark. It was as surreal as it was oddly satisfying, and it gave him something outside of his own head to focus on. There was just such a sharp, revitalizing contrast between the absolute solitude he’d grown accustomed to, and verbally sparring with McCree’s quick wit. 

 

The nights without the hero of course left Hanzo to ruminate over how inappropriate it was for him to be indulging so much. After all, what business did he have  _ enjoying _ things when it only led to colossal mistakes for the sake of temporary comforts? But for once, there was a counter argument to wallowing in stubborn silence: How could he avoid engaging in pointless banter when it just seemed to be how McCree preferred to work? Keeping quiet or ignoring his partner would be a detriment to their synergy, and he couldn’t very well have that.

 

Especially not now that they were coming up on some leads with real promise. They’d been slowly accumulating information on how the thugs had been putting themselves out there to be recruited. The fixer apparently had tiers of personnel assistance he offered, one of which required the aspiring criminals to essentially audition. This meant having some of his regular employees physically there to observe. Finding one of those sessions in progress would be their best chance at following anyone back to the man himself. 

 

So now all they had to do was find a particularly enterprising band of criminals. It wasn’t impossible, but it might’ve taken longer than either of them wanted to wait for. Alternatively, they could also helpfully suggest the idea to some upstarts and see what happens. It was all a very round about way of finding someone, but McCree told him that he’d tried being straightforward the last time he searched and got nothing for his trouble. 

 

Which brought Hanzo to his current rooftop vantage point. The air was cooling from the setting sun, but there were still a few hours of light left. Tonight he and McCree would go fishing around for someone to suggest a new business venture to or, if they were lucky, a group who was already making plans for exactly that. Hanzo had to admit, as tedious as it all was, they’d still managed a lot in a shorter amount of time than he could have hoped for acting on his own. Having a partner to pick up the slack was refreshing, he’d miss it when it was time to move on. 

 

That, at least, was an easier thing to dwell on than the quiet he faced once he left Gibraltar. 

 

A subtle alarm pinged in his ear – McCree would be arriving soon. Hanzo stretched and peeked out over the edge of the roof to keep an eye out for him. A few minutes of nothing passed and he sighed into his mask. McCree was running late.

 

Ten minutes became twenty. Twenty minutes became thirty.

 

Still, there was no black clad figure stalking up the alley.

 

Hanzo didn’t like it. McCree had been late before, but never by this much, and certainly not without notifying him. He pressed his hand to the communicator.

 

“Gunslinger?” Hanzo of course couldn’t refer to him by name while in costume – and he flatly refused to call him  _ Mystery Man _ – so he’d taken to modifying McCree’s propensity for calling him ‘archer’ when out in the field. 

 

He was tempted to try calling him a few more colorful things when there was no reply to his next few attempts. 

 

Being late was one thing – being late and unresponsive was another. It was out of character and there was no established protocol to follow. Hanzo tried briefly to convince himself that it was nothing, but it did little to stop the muddled pulse of anxiety that welled up in his limbs. Staying put was quickly becoming impossible, so he scanned the area and took a running leap to the next building over.

 

Hanzo headed toward McCree’s apartment. He didn’t  _ know _ that was the direction he’d be coming from, but it was as good a guess as any. A quick glance was tossed down any back alley he passed over, looking for any hints of something distracting enough to waylay a superhero. The dull sound of sirens in the distance caught his attention and he found himself following after it almost automatically.

 

A few hurried steps in and Hanzo suddenly felt immensely foolish. It was probably something only just dramatic enough to have a super involved and McCree simply switched to a different radio frequency, missing his appointment and Hanzo’s call. The fact that he was blindly chasing after some random incident, too restless to stay put, was embarrassing. Hanzo hesitantly came to a stop. He should save himself some dignity and return to their meeting place to wait, like an adult.

 

Below him, another police car rushed past and blocked traffic down the road. The cop jumped out and pulled partitions out of his trunk, waving off anyone who tried to move past the intersection he now occupied. 

 

A perimeter was being formed. 

 

Hanzo tried to mentally work out how many sirens he thought he’d heard earlier, then quickly abandoned the effort in favor of pressing onward toward whatever crisis was unfolding. Slipping past the police lines was easy enough, but to be fair, the officers seemed reasonably well occupied. There were a few scattered screams of frightened civilians being escorted out, but no one appeared to be injured. It was a somewhat nicer part of the city, with old style townhouses complete with overfull flower boxes. Gaps between buildings were mostly nonexistent, but the undulating rooflines meant the climb across them was slowed. Hanzo was halted halfway over a shingle coated arch when the muffled bass of explosions began rattling windows. Flashes of light flared up behind the row of houses across the street and he quickened his pace.

 

Beyond the elaborate line of gables, the space opened up into a small park. Dirt and debris had been tossed in every direction. Tree limbs, and some smaller trees were strewn about in splinters. There seemed to have been a concerted effort put into keeping things contained to the park, rather than the homes surrounding it, judging by the deep, diverting gashes along the edges of the grass. He saw Balderich and Cyberian first, their armor shining through the chaos. They were standing among a plethora of slightly smouldering craters in the soil, facing off against a behemoth of a man standing in front of an ice cream truck trapped, somehow, in the mulch of the playground. The heroes towered over most, but this man easily matched them in height  _ and _ weight from the look of him. His gut rounded out his silhouette, punctuated by a flaming engine tattoo covering most of it. His face was wholly covered by a haphazardly stitched gas mask and his shoulders armored over in what looked like spiked tires and spare parts. Hanzo was just beginning to wonder how he could have caused such a scene alone, when a second figure clambered up over top of the truck.

 

“You lot don’t take a hint, do ya!?” he shouted, fist waving in the air. He was equally as shirtless, but comical in the physical contrast to his apparent cohort. He was significantly shorter and had nary a single gram of fat clinging to his lopsided frame. The tire strapped to his back looked like it weight more than he did. But the odd, vaguely gun like amalgamation of parts in his hand suggested he was the one responsible for the craters. Not to mention the singed blonde hair, or the fact that both limbs on his right side were replaced with clunky prosthetics. 

 

The heroes seemed undeterred, and Hanzo wasn’t interested in getting involved. They weren’t the super he was looking for. He carefully climbed down the artificially aged brickwork, obscured enough by a tree that he hoped not to be noticed by the madness just a few meters away. Searching around an area on foot was never his preference, but the annoyingly irregular rooftops were making a case for a lower altitude. Plus, the conflict thus far had apparently caused quite the panic, leaving several options for cover. Cars dotted the street all around the park area, seemingly stopped and abandoned the moment things went south. There was one thick oak tree that looked as though it’d been rammed into and toppled over, blocking the entire west end of the street from view with its thick branches. If McCree were around, it’d be easier to find him on the ground. If he weren’t there, Hanzo would just backtrack to his apartment. Perhaps he’d find him on the way, or if not, maybe he’d break in out of spite and wait for McCree to show up and explain himself. 

 

He crouched low and moved toward the felled tree, checking around cars as he went. The fighting started up again behind him, after a fair bit of shouting from both parties. Hanzo couldn’t help but glance over his shoulder to catch a glimpse of the light show. The melodic chiming of bells just ahead snapped his attention to the front. Before him, rising from behind a sedan, was the picture of an ethereal monk. The sheer contrast between the surroundings and the golden crowned figure was enough to stall out Hanzo’s ability to process what he was seeing. It was quickly remedied a second later as he pulled his bow from his back in a swift, practiced motion. The monk moved farther out from his hiding place and Hanzo drew an arrow. He was – floating. Perfectly seated, knees out and hands folded with meditative poise – about a half a meter in the air. His face was a mask of serene calm in human features, but the metal of his neck and arms revealed the omnic underneath.

 

“Greetings.” his metallic voice was cheery, but Hanzo was unwilling to drop his defenses. 

 

“Who are you?” he demanded. 

 

“You may call me Sanzang. I am here with Overwatch.” The monk’s necklace of baseball sized orbs hovered and spun as his dark ‘eyes’ examined Hanzo. “...and I do not believe you wish to harm me.”

 

Hanzo’s fingers twitched.

 

“Am I too presumptuous?” he laughed, “When you appeared, you paid little heed to the conflict, despite your clear readiness for it. My belief doesn’t come from nothing.”

 

Hanzo’s eyes narrowed. It irked him to put even a slight amount of slack in his bowstring, but ‘Sanzang’ was right: If he were with Overwatch, Hanzo wanted nothing to do with him, and he  _ certainly _ didn’t want to pick a fight. Perhaps they were both being presumptuous, but Hanzo didn’t have time to puzzle him out. 

 

He aimed his arrow to the ground and moved past.

 

“But if you are just passing through –” the monk called after him, “I have a friend in a bit of trouble.”

 

“I am not involved in this.” Hanzo said sternly, without stopping.

 

“I understand, but you may find him in your path regardless.”

 

That was enough to get Hanzo to turn, his face pinched in confusion more so than the irritated glare he’d intended.

 

“He is trapped beyond,” Sanzang gestured to the tree’s sprawling, twisted branches. “I meant to retrieve him, but I am concerned for my other companions. I am here to heal – but I cannot move so quickly or gracefully as others.”

 

“You’re asking an armed stranger to rescue your friend?” Hanzo felt a familiar bitterness rising in his throat. The number of people in this city who underestimated the danger he posed was starting to get insulting.

 

A blast echoed out behind them like a mangled shotgun, accompanied by pings of metal ricocheting off armor. Sanzang’s orbs stilled momentarily.

 

“I am asking for your assistance, yes.” his voice remained steady, but there was a sternness to it now. 

 

Hanzo frowned. It was a strange thing having a superhero ask so gravely for a favor. He looked back at Balderich and Cyberian pummeling away at the miscreants that refused to be pinned down. All of them were starting to show some wear, even with all their gear. Sanzang must have left earlier to attempt a rescue, only to find the obstacles taking too long to overcome. Hanzo’s jaw clenched at the thought of getting thrown into ‘hero’ nonsense –

 

But –

 

He looked back at Sanzang, whose orbs were twisting in irregular patterns. 

 

A neelding thought dug its claws into the back of his mind and he tightened his grip on his bow. He wasn’t being asked to join the fight – was it  _ really _ so much trouble to free someone and walk away? Would he be stubborn for the sake of it in  _ this _ too?

 

Hanzo held back a groan. If this set a tiresome precedent, he would not be pleased.

 

“Fine.”

 

“You have my thanks.” Sanzang’s relief sang through his voice and the chiming of his orbs. He turned away and floated back toward the other heroes.

 

Hanzo sighed heavily. At least McCree couldn’t hear about this later and chide him for –

 

A thought struck him like lightning. 

 

“It could not  _ possibly _ ,” he growled and tore through the lush foliage of the oak.

 

Surely fate would not be so obnoxious as to test his moral fiber, only to give him the exact thing he was looking for anyway.

 

Except of course it would, because beyond the leaves of that damned tree was McCree. Hanzo could only feel moderately vindicated for his trouble by the ridiculous state of him. A chain was strung through the branches and twisted over the wrought iron arm of a tall, decorative lamp post. Dangling on the other end, wound up in several loops and a massive meat hook, was McCree. Hanzo walked up, biting back a slew of curses in multiple languages. McCree looked over from his struggle to l free his arms and started.

 

“Archer?”

 

“You were late.” he grumbled, trying not to take his frustration with the universe out on McCree.

 

“Uh, well, I suppose I’m glad you came lookin for me?” He swayed limply and sounded strangely uncertain.

 

It didn’t help Hanzo’s mood.

 

“We had an arrangement – why didn’t you tell me you were being delayed?” he dug his fingers into the ridges of the post and climbed his way to the overhanging arm. He perched over the tangle of chainlinks and began tugging.

 

“Excuse me?” McCree leaned his head back, trying to face Hanzo as best he could, “I don’t know if you noticed, sugar, but I ain’t really in a position to make calls here.”

 

“And there was no point between finding out about an incident and being strung up for you to say anything?” Hanzo scowled and gradually loosened the chain.

 

“Are we really arguing about this right now?” McCree’s voice was teeming with exasperation and disbelief.

 

“It appears there’s not much else for you to do at the moment.” Hanzo didn’t look to see his reaction to that, but he heard him suck his teeth and mumble angrily. 

 

The chain was wrapped tight around the arm, so Hanzo opted to slink down to where McCree was hanging and try getting him unraveled from there. 

 

“Hey, sweetheart, you come here often?” McCree grumbled as Hanzo pulled up the hook and started undoing the knot it had looped itself into.

 

He’d nearly successfully freed McCree when the stuttering bursts of what sounded like a gatling gun erupted from down the road. Hanzo jumped at the noise then had to grab onto the post with how much McCree began fidgeting. 

 

“Archer, I’m gonna need you to get the hell outta here.”

 

“What? I’m nearly finished, just –”

 

Scrap and shrapnel blasted through the tree, filling the air with shredded leaves and splinters. Not a second later, the huge figures of both Balderich and Cyberian blew past them, propelled by the force of a thousand red hot bits of metal. They hit the pavement with a crunch and skidded away.

 

“I mean it, you need to go.” McCree urged with more severity than Hanzo had ever heard him use. It was starting to make Hanzo feel genuinely nervous, but why was McCree trying to send him away? His fingers fumbled slightly as McCree gained some freedom of motion in his shoulder.

 

The length of chain that disappeared into the tree branches shifted, then snapped taut. The force of it being pulled back jerked the post forward and Hanzo nearly lost his grip.

 

“Archer!” 

 

Hanzo ignored him and raced to throw off another layer of links as metal whined against metal. McCree was finally loose enough that they both tumbled down. They landed roughly, just as the strain pinched the iron post and brutally contorted it. The chain slithered off, then flew back into the hands of the massive man in the gas mask. He and his skinny friend were marching through the mess they made of the toppled tree. 

 

“Hey! Who’re you?” skinny pointed at Hanzo while he and McCree were both still scrambling to get to their feet. “Ey, Roadie, you missed one.” he poked ‘Roadie’s’ belly.

 

“Shut up, Jamison.” Roadie’s voice was haggard and completely bereft of patience. He stuck the hook in his belt and shoved a fresh handful of shrapnel from his pocket into his wide mouthed beast of a firearm.

 

Hanzo and McCree took one brief glance at each other, then dashed away in opposite directions. Hanzo ducked behind a car but saw that McCree, for some reason, had left himself out in the open. Hanzo scowled at him – the inexplicable lack of consideration for his own safety was getting old  _ very _ quickly.

 

“Not to worry! I’ll take care of it!” Jamison hopped forward and posed triumphantly, “Nobody’s takin unlimited ice creams away from the likes of Junkrat and Roadhog!”

 

Hanzo froze. He had thought the ice cream truck was collateral damage – not the actual start of this whole farce.

 

Unbelievable.

 

The self proclaimed ‘Junkrat’ raised his grenade launcher and fired off five sparking balls in a wide spread. The projectiles arced overhead, and Hanzo quickly tried to estimate their trajectory – but before they could hit the ground, five heavy cracks went off and detonated them in the air. His attention flipped to McCree and found him reloading his revolver – he’d seen him use it before, of course, but never with such speed. The shots had been fired in such short succession that Hanzo barely registered them as more than a single pull of the trigger. Though, he’d be more impressed if he weren’t preoccupied with being annoyed at – whatever had gotten into him today. 

 

“I’m gonna need you to reconsider your position on that.” McCree took aim at the two with an acute intensity in his eyes. Something was definitely off. A vein of worry split through Hanzo’s irritation.

 

Junkrat stuck his lower lip out in an exaggerated pout, and Roadhog huffed.

 

“Try me.” he said menacingly, raising his own gun to match McCree’s. Junkrat took the hint and reloaded.

 

A few thoughts layered over each other all at once in a mad slurry. One: McCree might very well be good enough to shoot a bullet out of the air – but not buckshot made of loose screws. Second: Hanzo knew from working with him that he had a kevlar composite stitched into the lining of his suit. It could stop a lot, but it wasn’t nearly as strong as Hanzo’s own armor. And third: McCree being grievously injured, especially over something as ridiculous as all of this, was unacceptable.

 

Hanzo had no time to plan for anything else. His arm tingled and a burst of adrenaline, coupled with the cybernetics in his legs, propelled him forward. He lunged into McCree as everyone fired. Hanzo shoved himself in under McCree’s arm, and his shot went wide. He felt McCree tense in shock just before the impact of the everything else hit his back. Hanzo had the air shoved out of him and both of them stumbled backward. McCree grabbed onto him, trying to keep him from falling, but Hanzo was determined to keep his feet under him. He brushed McCree’s hands away, shifted his weight around, and faced their assailants. The muscles in his back twinged and shuttered, but Hanzo had felt worse – a patch job and an ugly smear of purple was the most this would do. 

 

“Wha- are you-!?” McCree floundered momentarily for words to frame his apparent frustration, but Hanzo was tired of it.

 

“Stop making this more difficult than it needs to be.” he snapped quietly. He stabbed a look at McCree over his shoulder and even with the scarf, he could tell the hero was struggling not to keep at it anyway.

 

“Oof, having a moment?” Junkrat chimed in, and Hanzo drew an arrow. 

 

Roadhog cracked his neck, and a flicker of motion behind him caught Hanzo’s eye. 

 

There, at his back, was an undulating purple – orb?

 

A flurry of blue lights pounded into the back of Roadhog’s head.

 

“Arghh!” He lurched forward onto one knee and Junkrat squawked in surprise.

 

Then Hanzo heard a familiar heaving grunt, followed by a rush of fire.

 

Balderich rocketed past, directly into Roadhog, and blasted him through the mangled tree.

 

“Roadhog!” Junkrat ran after them, only to be forced to dodge the energy balls lobbing from Cyberian’s massive canon.

 

Hanzo immediately itched for an escape, but feared the damage was done by then – he’d already been seen by one hero already anyway. McCree seemed to understand his sudden stiffness, and waved Cyberian past them.

 

“Don’t worry none about me, you just go get after those maniacs!”

 

She gave them a lingering glance, but with her face covered, Hanzo couldn’t say what her impression was. 

 

“Understood.” she chimed back and continued after the rest of them. 

 

It was decidedly not ideal. He’d wanted to remain known to only McCree, but he should have guessed it would never work out that way. The dread of wondering what to do about it was building, but then, like a switch had been flipped, he was suddenly feeling significantly less concerned. Not completely care free, but the itch in his skin over being  _ seen _ had faded – along with the pain in his back. A soft, golden light ambled over his armor and he caught sight of the culprit – another orb bobbing above his shoulder, this one the same soothing yellow as a biotic field. 

 

“Thanks San, I’ll take it from here!” McCree called out.

 

Hanzo looked over and saw Sanzang down the road, holding up a hand in acknowledgement. The orb vanished and along with it the dulling effects it was having on his anxieties. 

 

McCree mumbled something under his breath and nudged Hanzo out of sight, behind an abandoned SUV. 

 

“Well it looks like things are finally gettin under control,” he said with a strained sort of cheer – which was dropped immediately with the next word, “Now you mind tellin me what in the hell you think you’re doin?”

 

“Me?” Hanzo felt his eye twitch, “What about  _ you _ ? You never showed, never sent a message, then when I find you anyway, you’re trying desperately to get yourself shot!” Frustration was coiling in his core and raising his voice was the  _ least _ he could do to ease some of the pressure.

 

“First off, you shoulda known I was a faster shot than either of them by a mile. Mine woulda hit and IF they had the means to fire anyway, I’da had plenty of time to roll out the way.  _ You _ didn’t need to get involved.” McCree stuck the air with an emphatic point of his finger and Hanzo couldn’t stop the offended sound that escaped his throat. He fully intended to interject, but McCree carried on, “In fact, you shouldn’ta been in that situation in the first place, cause I told you to beat it before they even saw you.”

 

“So what? You could be caught dangling there, helpless?” Hanzo countered with as much indignation as McCree.

 

“Yes! You coulda pulled some shit from afar like I  _ know _ you like to do,  _ archer _ , but with stickin around with me hogtied,  _ you _ were the only threat left!” McCree leaned in, as though taking up more space would make his point any more valid. “They’d been pullin all kindsa bullshit, the big one woudln’t go down for anything, and the little guy has more explosives on him than goddamn Fourth of July – you didn’t need to have both of em trained on  _ just _ you, so I told you to  _ move _ .” 

 

“For as much talking as you do, you seem to communicate very little.” Hanzo snarled, “As it happens, I am not a mind reader. Everything  _ I _ saw indicated you were trying to throw yourself at their feet for no reason.”

 

McCree growled in exasperation, “Because I was protecting you! Is that such a crazy concept?”

 

“What.” The concept was not incomprehensible, but Hanzo wanted a better explanation than  _ that _ piss poor option.

 

“These guys weren’t just two bit gangsters and mob lackeys, they –”

 

Hanzo felt himself actually flushing with rage.

 

“You thought I wasn’t up to the challenge?” fire bloomed in his chest, “Needing a hero to ‘ _ protect _ ’ me isn’t a foreign concept, it’s a laughable one. You have  _ no idea _ what  _ I _ am capable of.” He stepped forward and forced McCree back, “I thought we were  _ partners _ . If you think you can alter this arrangement based on what  _ you _ think I can handle, then you can take your offer and choke on it.”

 

McCree’s eyes were wide, the fight swiftly draining from them. Hanzo, on the other hand, was barely restrained fury. He bored his eyes into McCree’s another moment before breaking off and shoving past him. It felt like he was burning from the inside out, being eaten by his sudden anger – and a sickly creeping of shame.

 

He thought they had an understanding.

 

He thought –

 

“Wait, wait!” 

 

McCree called out and quickly trotted up to Hanzo’s side. He slowly turned his head, not opposed to continuing to glare daggers at him. 

 

“I- shit. I don’t – I’m not used to – ” McCree clenched his fists and struggled to speak. “You’re right. I was treatin you like a civilian, which you sure as all hell ain’t. You mighta considered I knew what I was doin if I hadn’t been tryina coddle you.”

 

Hanzo stared, unwilling to let go of his anger just yet. McCree shuffled under the weight of it and his shoulders visibly heaved with the deep breath he took.

 

“I am sorry for – today. Makin you feel like I didn’t consider you an equal.”

 

There was a familiar earnestness in his voice and Hanzo somewhat bitterly recalled the reassurances McCree had made when they got started. Now the hero’s eyes were searching through his own and apparently not terribly optimistic about what he saw there.

 

“Ok, I get it, you – you might need some time, I just –” he looked briefly heavenward, “We’ve been workin real good together, and I’m really hopin we can continue with that.”

 

The flames of Hanzo’s fury wavered. McCree was – trying at least. He  _ had  _ already apologized. Hanzo looked down and pressed his hand to his forehead. It was – possible he was being stubborn again. He tried to take a breath and logic his way through the emotional smog. 

 

After today, after a week, would he regret cutting ties with McCree over this?

 

The tension in his chest reluctantly began to release.

 

The answer was simple, if difficult to swallow at the moment. McCree had certainly forgiven plenty of his own social missteps and, to be fair, McCree wasn’t  _ entirely  _ at fault.

 

“Ugh,” Hanzo pressed his hand into his eyelids. “I –” he started, but cut himself off, realizing the agitation hadn’t quite left his voice. He looked up at McCree, who was watching warily, like he expected to be yelled at again. A different kind of shame was beginning to overtake whatever fire was left in him.

 

“I don’t appreciate the depths to which you underestimated  _ me _ , but – it is not fair if I don’t apologize for also underestimating you.” he managed. “I think perhaps our orientation was lacking for us to both still have such doubts about each other’s abilities.”

 

McCree’s surprise was apparent, but the following rush of relief was palpable. It echoed through his whole body and his posture went slack. 

 

“Yeah, apparently.” A nervous laugh escaped him. “All that team buildin in Overwatch and one outside dance partner throws me for a loop.”

 

“I was never a good dancer anyway.” the comment came out automatically, a side effect of spending too many hours playing off each other while crawling through the city. It seemed to surprise them both. 

 

As usual, McCree was quick to save Hanzo from the awkward pause that followed.

 

“I – hey, where’ve you been stayin?”

 

Hanzo physically recoiled from the question, “What? Why?”

 

“No, not like – I ain’t tryina find your secret hideout.” he waved his hand, “Just, are you married to it?” 

 

Hanzo eyed him curiously.

 

“I was thinkin you could – crash on my couch. If you wanted.”

 

He stared. McCree shifted stiffly.

 

“I know, I know, but – I figure it’d alleviate some of the issues. We wouldn’ta had our little scheduling mishap if we’d left from the same place, you know? Might save you some travel late at night, dependin on where you’re comin from.”

 

Hanzo didn’t react. Mostly because he was still wrapping his head around what was being offered. It was – unexpected, to say the least. Another nervous laugh slipped out of the hero.

 

“You don’t gotta, I won’t be mad.”

 

Hanzo was stuck. It would be more convenient, but less secure. The isolation of the tunnels was its own security, to say nothing of the minor additions he’d made. He’d even managed to reliably neutralize the awful silence. 

 

McCree fidgeted with his belt.

 

“You know what, you think about it.” he began to turn away but stopped when Hanzo’s hand flicked up.

 

There still weren’t enough adequately arranged thoughts to form a response, but he was trying. McCree resettled his weight and watched him, not analyzing this time only – waiting. 

 

The tunnels were technically safer, but that had yet to have any real positive effect on his mental state. But McCree’s apartment wouldn’t be so much more dangerous, would it? He was cautious, Hanzo had already seen that, and if anyone  _ did _ attack, there would be back up. 

 

Besides that, he simply enjoyed being around McCree. Even after today, with as quick as Hanzo was to anger, he didn’t want to let go of – well, the nearest thing to a friend he may have ever had.

 

“I think –” he started, stopped, then forced his way through it, “that would be – preferable.”

 

Pathetic. Now he really was indulging too much in something he enjoyed.

 

“Alright, if you’re sure.” McCree offered, far too gently.

 

This was going to end poorly.


	10. Chapter 10

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Trigger warning for implied suicidal thoughts. It's not super explicit or anything, but I figure I'll toss up a warning just in case.

Clearing out of the warehouse tunnels felt oddly temporary. Packing his things and trying to hide that he’d ever been there weren’t strange in and of themselves – but there was an underlying feeling Hanzo just couldn’t shake. He unmade his tarp tent, piling it loosely over his sleeping space, hoping to at least somewhat disguise the lack of dust there. He almost nudged back one of the crate towers from where he’d originally moved it, like he almost fixed the buzzing tube light overhead – but then did neither. A persistent hum rumbled quietly in the back of his mind – he would need to return here. McCree’s hospitality would not suffer him long, and unless they could conclude their business quickly, Hanzo would soon need a safe place to sleep again. 

 

There was, of course, no evidence to support the thought. They’d been working together fine thus far, and even the fight that prompted McCree to make the offer in the first place had been relatively well resolved. Hanzo lacked some social graces, but he knew how to be respectful and when to bite his tongue. McCree, while more likely to run his mouth, at least seemed willing to see reason. There was nothing to suggest that Hanzo wouldn’t be able to manage being a good house guest for a short while. 

 

But a lack of evidence had never been much of an obstacle for his paranoia. 

 

It felt wrong to leave the tunnel with half an intent to come right back to it – as though he thought McCree would be so quick to go back on his word. The hero’s integrity was clearly something he prided himself on – but it also felt irresponsible not to plan for a fallout anyway. After all, it wasn’t as though Hanzo knew anything about being someone’s _roommate_. McCree might have thought Hanzo’s snark amusing out in the field, but prolonged exposure might change his mind. His personality was not conducive to living in close quarters with someone. Soon rational, work-related reasons for Hanzo to stay might be too weak to keep him there.

 

He gave the storage space one last sweeping look, then heaved the door shut. The thundering echo of the latch clanging into place brought with it another foreboding thought: a decision born out of weakness was going to make things that much harder for him later. 

 

Hanzo never had friends, not really. At best they were relatives or schoolmates when he was younger. Much younger. But their camaraderie had very defined limits. Children in class might not have understood the power in his name, but their parents did. Once they found out who their kids were casually chatting with, it didn’t take long for his classmates to shy away from him. No one wanted to risk their families getting mixed up in the yakuza. 

 

On the opposite end, within the clan, anyone with a child close to Hanzo’s age was pushed to befriend him. Maybe one or more of these would have grown naturally into a worthy friendship, but the pressure of expectation spoiled the seeds from the start. They were hollow, paper thin, and easily dissolved. Soon enough, Hanzo could see it clearly – the signs of sycophants and social climbers only being nice to get something out of him.

 

At least at the time he still had Genji.

 

Over a decade later, Hanzo remained without a regular partner in conversation, much less anything close to genuine companionship. Not that it mattered, it wasn’t as if Hanzo had ever once in his life been entitled to such a thing – especially not _now_. But the chance to indulge was a siren song apparently beyond his power to resist. 

 

Jesse McCree was smart, capable, and irritating to an absurd degree. It was refreshing. If Hanzo thought too much about it, the idea was still bizarre. He supposed it didn’t help the somewhat awkward nature of their working relationship – each dodging around information the other wasn’t used to sharing. And Hanzo still had no intention of giving up his name. Despite all that, McCree still wanted him around – to the point of inviting him to stay _in his home_.

 

Anxiety rippled through his gut again. If he were going to indulge this one chance at having a friend before his duty was fulfilled, he hoped he wouldn’t spoil it too soon with – himself. 

 

The air outside the warehouse was cool – the slowly rising sun was not yet bright enough to burn off the clinging dregs of winter. Hanzo braced himself against it. The journey to McCree’s apartment felt longer than it usually did, undoubtedly thanks to the added weight of both his full duffel bag and his situation. Memories of loitering in the alley across the street, not knowing how to approach slipped in and Hanzo was suddenly annoyed with himself. How many times would he be so hesitant in ringing this ridiculous man’s door bell? 

 

When he did finally reach the building, he shoved his thumb against the buzzer immediately, just to spite his nerves. It helped none at all, of course, as his nerves only surged vengefully once the screen lit up with McCree’s smiling face.

 

“Hey partner, come on up. I’ve just been tryina clean the place up a little.” 

 

Naturally, McCree didn’t seem at all concerned about sharing his space with a surly assassin whose name he didn’t even know. The image blinked away and Hanzo took a steadying breath. The situation was not as dramatic as he was making it out to be, it was just unfamiliar. That was all. There was no need to be so distressed over it.

 

Entering into the building and having McCree allow him in the apartment was at least nothing new. He’d been inside plenty at that point, the only difference this time was a bit less _leaving_. Which remained a profoundly odd thought, even as Hanzo’s bag thudded against the living room floor. It took a moment for his brain to catch up to the fact that McCree was speaking to him.

 

“I keep it pretty warm in here, which you probably noticed, but if you need any extra blankets or anythin, just let me know.”

 

Hanzo glanced down at the couch – the red blanket with the gold border had been taken from the back and folded neatly next to a fluffy pillow. There was a faint scent of some airy detergent lilting off of it. 

 

“You didn’t need to trouble yourself so much.” Hanzo found himself saying.

 

McCree snorted, “I ain’t gonna invite you in then just leave you hangin.” he leaned his shoulder against the stubby partition separating the entryway from the kitchen. “But you just wait till you hear my other idea, I know you ain’t gonna like it.”

 

Hanzo’s face fell, but he was still quietly pleased to be distracted from his internal fretting.

 

“As king of this here castle, I decree that we’re _both_ gonna take a couple days off from pullin anythin heroic so we can get acclimated.”

 

“What.” he was right, Hanzo didn’t like it. 

 

“You heard me, sunshine.” McCree continued in his jovial tone before Hanzo could protest further, “We got into that mess cause we were havin some trust issues an didn’t know each other as well as we thought we did. This time I aim to let things settle a bit, maybe avoid any new problems that might pop up.”

 

Hanzo huffed. It wasn’t _unreasonable_ , all things considered, but abandoning that amount of productivity was asking too much.

 

“If you expect me to sit idle, we really _don’t_ know each other well.”

 

“Nah, wouldn’t dream of it.” McCree held up his hands, “I just mean gettin geared up an goin out. You know, situations that’d require us to be workin in sync – not counting emergencies of course. But if you wanna spy on some chat logs or cell towers to keep from goin stir crazy, by all means.”

 

A pause followed while Hanzo considered the proposal. He could feel himself fighting a beleaguered sigh as McCree stood patiently waiting. 

 

“Fine.” 

 

“Great.” he smiled and pushed off the partition, “Now I’m gonna leave you some time to yourself to get cozy while I go get some breakfast. Sound good?”

 

Hanzo hesitated faintly before answering, “Of course.” McCree was being needlessly considerate, but saying so wouldn’t likely have changed anything. The man’s stubbornness easily matched his own and besides – some quiet time to acclimate did sound appealing.

 

McCree nodded, tossed a weathered leather jacket over his shoulders, put on the matching hat, and casually left Hanzo alone in his apartment. The contrast of him acting so calm about the whole situation was actually having a mitigating effect on Hanzo’s own anxieties. Which the clever bastard was probably doing on purpose. Hanzo smirked to himself and looked over the living room.

 

He wasn’t unfamiliar with the space, but now it would need to act as his home base – this necessitated a reexamination from a different perspective. Outside, the city had well past started its daily grind and the subtle sounds could be heard mumbling up through the air. It wasn’t intrusive by any means, but it was a murmur of white noise that Hanzo sighed at. He looked over the couch. Every time he’d been here previously they did all their planning at the table. He didn’t actually know how comfortable the living room furniture was, but surely it fell somewhere between vicious hotel mattress and ancient tiled floor. He pressed a careful palm against it and was pleased to find it soft and forgiving. Morning light pouring in from the window across the room had even warmed it slightly. 

 

Hm.

 

The potential threat of working next to a wall-sized window facing the street didn’t phase him much before, especially considering it apparently didn’t bother McCree at all. But now Hanzo needed to sleep here. His eyes bounced between the two, then at the adjacent recliner. 

 

McCree did say he should make himself comfortable.

 

Hanzo was just finishing rearranging the living room when the sound of spurs approached the door. When it opened, he could not stop the blank eyed stare he gave McCree, while he finished nudging the edge of the couch into place. He had not yet formulated an appropriate statement for why he’d done any of this. McCree took in the results of Hanzo’s labor in mild confusion. The chair now sat where the couch had been, the couch having been moved to have its back facing the kitchen window. A small push sweeper Hanzo had found in a closet leaned innocently against the wall from where he’d cleaned the carpet after shuffling everything around. McCree’s mouth opened slowly, clearly unsure what to say. So Hanzo spoke up sharply, trying to explain himself.

 

“It’s – the sightlines,” he started, trying to boil down his paranoid reasoning to simple phrases even as he spoke the words. McCree glanced at the window, then breathed a small sound of amusement, shaking his head. 

 

“Whatever makes it homey for ya.” he grinned, and Hanzo awkwardly straightened himself out under the weight of it. 

 

“If you got that all wrapped up, we have some house rules to go over while you get acquainted with the local cuisine.” McCree stepped past his hastily rearranged living space, and set a familiar take out bag on the table.

 

Hanzo was all too happy to oblige. McCree set out two containers, each filled with the same assorted aromatic layers over dough he’d had when Hanzo first showed up at his door. 

 

“Alright, so this we’re callin your house warmin gift, but I will be expectin you to cover your own needs while you’re here.”

 

Hanzo cocked an eyebrow as he sat across the table, “I had assumed as much.” He said somewhat flatly.

 

“I didn’t figure you’d assumed otherwise, just wanted to say it for clarity’s sake. I’m happy to have you here, I think it’s gonna work out fine, I just don’t suspect I make enough to support the amount of calories I’m guessin you take in in a day.”

 

Hanzo scoffed as he tentatively picked up the memela. “You’d be surprised.” He examined the bright red sauce and took a bite.

 

“With the guns you’re packin? I dunno.” McCree said jokingly, but Hanzo only barely heard him.

 

The savory flavors and textures mixed over his tongue, followed by an expertly measured kick of spice. Apparently McCree’s questionable taste did not at all apply to his palate. When Hanzo looked up from his meal, McCree was smirking. 

 

“What’d I tell ya?”

 

“Exceptional.” Hanzo wasn’t one to deny skill, no matter the form it presented itself in. “Though I still don’t think it’s worth risking your life for.” 

 

“Ooo, Imma tell Mama Arroyo you said that.” McCree put a hand over his chest, guarding against the critique. 

 

“As long as you include the part where I complimented her cooking.” Hanzo warned placidly as he turned his attention back to his meal.

 

“Single word affirmations, then the biting commentary, got it.” McCree laughed. “But while you’re sittin there eatin nirvana, I’ll start my spiel.”

 

McCree then proceeded to lay out his expectations for them cohabitating. It was all straightforward and fairly obvious common courtesy, however, as McCree put it, better to confirm it out loud than risk taking anything for granted. Some rules were a bit more specialized – things like avoiding small and unnecessary information leaks like ordering food for delivery. Hanzo listened intently even as he devoured his memelas. At the end of it, McCree’s eyes sharpened and arrested his attention further – but the reasoning for it was not what Hanzo expected.

 

“It’s my place n’ all, but I want to make sure you understand somethin: if anythin feels off, or just grates on you, do not keep that shit to yourself, you hear? It don’t do either of us any good to just grin an bear it – if I’m screwin somethin up, you gotta let me know so I can fix it. And I have every intention of affordin you the same luxury. You won’t ever have to wonder if I’m secretly pissed about somethin, I will absolutely let you know.”

 

It always caught Hanzo off guard when McCree would speak with such sobering resolve. It left no doubts which clauses in their partnership were the most vital to him – what he most wanted Hanzo to remember. It was just odd how often the emphasis was placed on their overall harmony versus their overall success. It was always jarring at first, but over time, he was finding himself less and less surprised. Even so, he was perhaps a bit slow to reply.

 

“Understood.” It felt like an inadequate response, but it was all that came to him. 

 

Apparently it was all McCree required, and the tension from the moment smoothed out as he continued on to much more mundane topics. 

 

Ground rules and local points of interest thoroughly established, the rest of the day was spent trying to tackle whatever could be managed without diving into dark alleys. At least on Hanzo’s part. McCree helped, but was much more lax, preferring to loosely regard it as a day off. He pitched the idea of cloning a phone and encouraging some lucky stooges to bait out their real quarry. Then they could just sit back and wait for the text. It was a decent plan, so they spent some time putting together a list of possible candidates. 

 

After a lunch break (which McCree insisted on taking) Hanzo was left to his own devices. Apparently McCree had planned on using the second half of that day to work on his civilian job. It made Hanzo feel a little guilty for eating up his morning, not knowing there was paid work waiting for him. 

 

“Now don’t go havin too much fun,” he joked mid stretch as he stood, “You might stumble into hobbies that don’t involve tryina hunt down the whole Shimada hierarchy.”

 

Hanzo hummed, fixing his eyes on the article in front of him, briefly staring past the words written there. “There is always one more until there isn’t.”

 

“Fair.” McCree chuckled then headed off to his room to work.

 

Hanzo waited until he was sure he heard the faint tapping of a keyboard before continuing to read. 

 

He spent the next few hours trying to narrow down their list even further. After that, he poured over how best to execute McCree’s idea. Or at least what he could present as a possible solution. Whatever his own strategies might be, there would certainly be some shrewd bit of diplomacy McCree would want to throw in.

 

Time eased by, uneventful and quiet. McCree appeared periodically, but usually for water, and didn’t comment further on Hanzo’s – dedication to his work. Eventually, the sun began to sink, and Hanzo’s back began to feel the day spent at the kitchen table. McCree had appeared one final time to say good night and that he’d see Hanzo in the morning. He threw in a joking comment about not staying up too late, but Hanzo suspected the sentiment was genuine.

 

To be fair, there wasn’t really much else he could continue trying to do without sneaking out or getting McCree’s input. But despite the rough quality of his sleep lately, he didn’t feel especially tired. He’d spent the day planning for action but taking none, leaving him restless. He tried browsing a few general news stories, hoping to wind down his thoughts, but it wasn’t helping. Eventually, he sighed and stood, walking to the rearranged living area. He moved the coffee table against the wall as quietly as possible, then fished a change of clothes from his bag.

 

A bit of light physical activity would loosen his locked up muscles and hopefully ease the fidgety tingle from his skin. He pulled on sweatpants and an undershirt then ran through whatever stretching exercises he could think to do. There was a bit of a limit, considering he was restricted in space and needed to stay quiet – perhaps he would have to ask McCree if there was a gym nearby. _Space is one thing the tunnels had that the apartment does not_ , he mused. The stretching did sooth the building soreness from sitting in a wooden chair all day, but the restlessness was not fully appeased. Hanzo grumbled internally, but decided to give the couch itself a chance. Perhaps laying down on a soft and gentle surface for the first time in ages would calm him enough to sleep. 

 

It was a vast improvement from the decrepit tile floor. The length of it was just enough for Hanzo to lay out completely, and the gracious lack of springs in his back provided as much relief as the stretching had. The freshly laundered blanket spread warm across his chest, and he closed his eyes, eager for the possibility of actually getting some rest that night.

 

He should have known better. Just as he felt the heaviness of sleep sinking in, his body tensed out of it. Some sound or shift in the air, Hanzo wasn’t even aware enough to know. The alarm fired in his head, and now he was alert again. He pressed his shoulders against the couch and tried to resettle. Then twenty minutes later, the scenario repeated itself.

 

The many harsh drawbacks of the warehouse where enough to make Hanzo forget the problems he usually had on the first night in a new location. Primarily: the fact that it was a new location. An environment saturated in unknowns, and his subconscious refused to let him ignore any potential hints at a breach in security.

 

Except he’d _been_ here before. _At night!_ He knew what the city sounded like around McCree’s apartment, he shouldn’t be twitching at every subtle sound coming from outside. He shifted and grumbled. It was only because he was actually trying to _sleep_ here now and it wasn’t just a temporary stop before going to the more secure location. With the broken light from the tunnel, the noise was steady and constant – here it was alive and unpredictable. Hanzo would surely appreciate it for its quality the night after, but for now, he could not force himself to ignore it. He sighed out a haggard, weary breath, ready to spend the night staring at the ceiling.

 

A muted creaking came from down the hall, and Hanzo was wide awake again. Shuffling footsteps followed, then the light click of McCree’s door opening. The man himself came walking carefully out, peeked around the corner, and made eye contact. 

 

“Uh, hey.” he said quietly. 

 

“If you need something, you can get it, you won’t be disturbing me.” Hanzo responded at a normal volume, emphasizing how very not asleep he was.

 

“Nah, it’s not –” he paused briefly, “You havin trouble sleepin too?”

 

Hanzo quirked an eyebrow at him and sat up.

 

“Oh no, you don’t gotta get up –” his eyes caught on Hanzo’s left arm and lingered just a bit too long.

 

It got Hanzo’s attention and he only wondered why for a second before it came to him. Damn. McCree had never seen the dragon tattoo writhing down his arm. It was half exposed now, from the short sleeves of his undershirt. Hanzo covered it in public and his armor echoed the design, but didn’t show any of the ink on his skin. If McCree hadn’t already assumed Hanzo was former yakuza, he surely did now. A groan tried to rumble through his chest, but Hanzo squashed it down. It didn’t matter, not really. Just a confirmation that Hanzo hadn’t really wanted to give.

 

“I’m just strugglin a lil more than I thought I would is all.” McCree continued casually, as if the tattoo hadn’t given him pause, “Not that you’re bein loud, complete opposite actually.” He moved further into the living room and Hanzo saw the laptop in his arm. “I feel like – since I know you’re in here, my head keeps tryin to listen for anything that might be you versus somebody else an –” he sighed, “It’s makin me a little too anxious. I was gonna try somethin, but since you’re awake anyway, I’ll run it by you.”

 

Hanzo adjusted himself on the couch, not bothering to be shy about his arm. He supposed he shouldn’t be surprised that McCree would be having essentially the same issues. He was certainly cautious enough in everything else. 

 

Since there were no objections, McCree went on.

 

“I figured, if I ain’t sleepin anyway, maybe I’d come in here and do a little work. Just get acquainted with what the normal is for you bein here. Then once I got it in my head, maybe my head’ll let me get some shut eye. That ok?”

 

Hanzo nodded. “Of course.” He didn’t anticipate sleeping tonight either, and the idea could work both ways. Though he wondered if whatever office chair McCree had been in all day was any more comfortable than those in the kitchen. “You can take the recliner if you wish, you won’t bother me.”

 

“Oh, well, if you’re sure.” McCree hesitantly moved past the couch like he was ready for Hanzo to change his mind any second. The chair was against the wall, facing Hanzo, so when McCree turned on the laptop, the glow of the screen wasn’t pointed toward him.

 

Hanzo laid back down and got comfortable. Soon a rhythm developed of quiet pauses, occasional clicks, and the rapping of fingers on the keyboard. It was certainly louder than the ambient sounds, but it felt less intrusive. Like McCree said, it had a clear and obvious source. Hanzo closed his eyes and tried again to let himself doze.

 

He was reminded of comparing McCree’s presence to mollifying white noise. He almost laughed to himself about how literal that passing thought had become.

 

The steadying lullaby of McCree hard at work, drowning out everything else, eventually let Hanzo drift off. 

 

Swallowed by the thick, dark solitude of sleep.

 

Then there was a sword in his hands. 

 

Hanzo stared wide eyed into the void around him. All his senses could register was the hilt gripped tightly against his palms. He realized then that he wasn’t breathing. He was alive, flexing his fingers around the orderly chords of the wrapping, but there was no air. Just the dead weight of stagnant lungs, refusing to expand. 

 

Hanzo started to panic. His body tried to hyperventilate, but that only made his chest feel hot with the useless exertion. He tried dropping the sword, but he could not open his hands. 

 

He was about to try prying his fingers apart with his teeth when he saw the reflection in the blade. Warm light whispered across the edge and he could see the distorted reflection of a lantern. He twisted the sword up near his face, pointed out in a ready position where he could both see through it and attack if necessary.

 

He moved in utter silence toward the lantern and more features came into focus. Wooden railing to the side, a set of stairs behind it. The familiarity of the room coming into view sent a hollow echo through his heart. He shut his eyes against it and turned around. When he opened them again, he was facing the arched bridge that led into the Shimada castle dojo from the airy gardens outside. The moon hung heavy and red in the doorway. A shudder rattled up his spine and he slowly looked behind him.

 

Looming over the room was the ruined banner, split in the corner with Genji’s blood staining through it. 

 

But Genji wasn’t here, and he could move.

 

Hanzo tried to sprint outside, to escape having to relive his greatest sin _again_. 

 

The doors slammed shut. Then the entirety of the wall rushed toward him, splitting apart the bridge on the way. Hanzo stumbled back and leapt to the tatami mats, his body straining under the pressure without any oxygen. The wall came to an abrupt stop at the edge of the training area. The walls on either side began to slowly do the same, fracturing the railings and stairs as they stalked in. Hanzo felt like his lungs were on fire and tears started obscuring his vision. He blinked and shook them away, but immediately wished he hadn’t.

 

Genji appeared, standing in front of the banner with a jagged red line cut through his torso. His eyes were hard and his sword was raised. Hanzo could feel his limbs being puppeted into place and tried frantically to resist. He yanked and dragged against the force lining him up to attack, but his muscles were utterly drained because he _still could not breathe_. 

 

As Genji and he both took steps forward, Hanzo tried to cry out, but he physically couldn’t. Tears of desperate defeat flowed over his face as the horrific dance began again. 

 

But after one swing of his blade he could tell something was wrong. He’d replayed this night so many times, he knew every brutal move. The details varied, but the steps did not. Another cut was parried and he realized what the problem was – their positions had reversed. Hanzo was making Genji’s attacks and vice versa. He searched his brother’s face for answers, but only saw the intensity of his hatred. Hanzo’s eyes followed the flurry of blows from this unfamiliar perspective, dreading each new facet he could now commit to memory. As they neared the inevitable end, Hanzo realized how appropriate this version was. When the final blows were struck, the better of the two brothers would be left standing. Cut open, bloody, nightmarish, but forever less of a monster than Hanzo. 

 

He stopped his weak struggle and let himself be drawn through the motions. 

 

The relief and the rightness of this turn of events almost made him forget that his lungs were still charred and unmoving. 

 

Genji threw him against the wall and he knew this was the crescendo. He could feel the excitement of its coming pulse in his ears. His attack bore down on Genji, but the blow was blocked. Then Genji’s blade followed Hanzo’s original path, cleaving him through the side.

 

He thought he would feel some restorative sense of justice being served. Perhaps the sword cutting into him would finally unbind his lungs so he could scream one final apology. 

 

But there was only pain and a feeling of guilt that burned incandescently in his chest. His joints seized and his gut roiled under the intensity, but still he stood. Finally, the unyielding force that held him up like a broken toy cut out. Hanzo crumbled to the floor, his body trembling, feverishly sweating, and now bleeding out on top of it. The release he’d wanted, wasn’t coming, but maybe that was the point. Maybe it was selfish of him to think he could simply allow himself to be cut down as though that would make up for everything. For _anything_. 

 

Genji stood over Hanzo’s mangled body, the loathing still singing through his eyes. 

 

He wanted Hanzo to say it.

 

Say what he was willing to do to put his little brother’s soul to rest.

 

What he would do to atone for all the awful things he’d done.

 

The Shimada family was a cancer, and Hanzo had to remove it. It was his duty to seek out and spill every drop of Shimada blood until only he remained. 

 

Then there would only be one left to sacrifice.

 

Genji pointed the end of his blade at Hanzo, face hard and unwavering. He wanted him to say it.

 

Hanzo opened his mouth, trying to muster the strength from his beaten body to comply, but even then – there was no air to speak with.

 

A slight breeze drifted through the dojo. Hanzo could feel the cool draft of it bristling his skin, making the hair of his arms stand up. 

 

A wicked column of blindingly bright light flickered in and out in the span of a heartbeat. Hanzo blinked away the resulting afterimage and stared bewildered at Genji. He didn’t look real anymore. A second later, thunder cracked so loud it vibrated through to Hanzo’s bones and the floor quaked under him. Genji split open, revealing him as a wooden statue. The core glowed a fiery orange and wheezed white smoke from the twisted laceration. Painted on clothes peeled away from the flaming gash the lightning had shot through him.

 

The wind magnified to a barely contained hurricane. It ripped the banner callously from the wall and flung it to the side. The temperature of the room plummeted, breaking Hanzo’s fever and numbing his pain. 

 

It didn’t make sense. He deserved the punishment and Genji deserved to hear him say the words. The burning statue of his brother twitched jerkily to life again, wood creaking and splintering as he raised the point of his sword. He was still waiting to hear him say it.

 

Hanzo opened his mouth to try again, but the wind rumbled like it meant to rip apart the whole building. The torrent changed direction and rushed like a roaring stream straight down his throat. His lungs expanded to their fullest capacity, cooled and soothed by the mass of air that spiraled into them. Genji still stared at him with deadened, false eyes, but even now that he could finally breathe, Hanzo couldn’t speak past the air still pouring through. 

 

Ghostly blue talons burst through the tatami mats on either side of him. He only saw them for a moment – two rows of armored fingers capped with long, curved claws – before they simultaneously snapped in and ripped him through the floor. 

 

Hanzo shot upright with a gasping shout. His brain sloshed into consciousness against his skull and struggled to process his surroundings. Things came to him slowly, one at a time. He registered the feeling of the blanket clenched in his fist, the darkened walls of the living room, then finally the sleep rough voice of McCree, cautiously trying to get his attention. 

 

“Archer? You with me here?” 

 

McCree was positioned awkwardly in the chair, caught between jolting awake and catching his laptop before it fell from his lap. Apparently they’d both nodded off – until Hanzo ruined it. He scrubbed his hand over his face and lightly shook the tingling feeling from his left arm. 

 

“I’m sorry for waking you. I’m fine, you can go back to bed.” he said succinctly. 

 

“Uh huh” McCree’s eyes narrowed then he shrugged with practiced casualness, “Actually, since we’re both awake, I’m gonna make some tea.” He set his laptop down on the coffee table and stretched. “Friend of mine blends one up that does a fine job of relaxin the body though it don’t do much to shut your head off. You want me to make some for you?” 

 

“I appreciate the thought, but no thank you.” Irritation snuck into his voice and Hanzo tried to reel it back. He’d already caused McCree enough trouble for one evening.

 

“Well in that case, how bout I make enough for two anyway so you got some if you change your mind?” 

 

“I said I-!” The words burst out, loud and angry before Hanzo could snap his mouth shut. He was still a little too raw from the emotional storm of the nightmare. He rubbed his temple. “I didn’t mean to yell, I just – I do not require assistance.” 

 

“Assistance? Hon, I’m just talkin about heatin up too much water.” McCree’s face was serenely innocent, but Hanzo glared at him anyway.

 

“Why?” he demanded, ignoring the feigned misunderstanding completely. 

 

McCree didn’t seem to take that well and frowned. “Well shit, sunshine, it’s almost like I give a damn about your well being or somethin.” He placed his hands firmly on his thighs and stood. “If you _really_ don’t want the tea, fine, I won’t leave you out any. But if this is some ‘I’m too tough for help’ or ‘woe is me I’m such a burden’ bullshit, you can kiss my ass with that, then wash them sweet roses down with some goddamn chamomile.”

 

Hanzo did not have a response for that.

 

“So what’ll it be, partner? And you don’t get bonus points for lyin.”

 

He stared, trying to cobble together something to say. McCree stood waiting, apparently anticipating Hanzo needing a minute. 

 

Part of why he agreed to come here in the first place was to indulge in making one decent friend before his work was completed. Granted he was never in a great mood after a nightmare, but – this was not McCree underestimating his skills in battle. This was McCree just – being considerate? Hanzo sighed heavily and let his posture slump. He didn’t have the capacity to puzzle this out right now.

 

“I –” he started and stopped. Then by some odd, sleep deprived whim, obliged McCree with an honest answer, “I don’t understand you. But – I will take the tea. Thank you.”

 

McCree’s brows raised in surprise, and though Hanzo was prepared for more attitude, his tone was clear of it. “Yeah, I get that a lot. But I will be happy to share some tea with you.” He tipped the brim of a hat he wasn’t wearing and headed to the kitchen.

 

Hanzo watched him work for a minute before laying back down. He wondered if any amount of time would ever be enough to fully understand this –

 

Oh. Ugh. 

 

This _Mystery Man_.


End file.
